Returning to Tomorrow
by Setep Ka Tawy
Summary: Six months probably isn't long enough for John to begin picking up the pieces. Fortunately, Sherlock is trying to ensure that he doesn't have to. But in the meantime, a good old-fashioned friend is already setting up the board for the next round - and this time there's an ominous twist in the story that's more focused on John than Sherlock cares to admit. Post-Reichenbach plot-arc.
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:** This is not a generic, one-author story written by yours truly. It is, instead, a collaboration - essentially, a roleplay done between myself and the most brilliant** Kaelir of Lorien**. As such, a few things should be noted by the reader..._

_1) Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper will be played by **Setep Ka Tawy. **John Watson, Jim Moriarty, and Mycroft Holmes will be played by **Kaelir of Lorien**. This list may be updated as more characters appear._

_2) There will be a lot of switching between POVs. Whereas in most of my stories, you get the thoughts of only the main character portrayed, in this work you'll be getting the thoughts and views of multiple (though not all) characters, most particularly Sherlock and John. Similarly, there will be a heavy emphasis on dialogue and character interaction, as opposed to more fast-paced action._

_3) This roleplay, in its rough form, is actually still in progress, and so will be updated accordingly. Some editing will be done before each chapter is posted, but the essentials will not be changed. Similarly, the plot may at times seem to be rather winding, though considerable efforts have been and will be made to link everything together as the story progresses. And yes, there is a plot._

_4) Kaelir and myself, being somewhat obsessive, have attempted to make this as technically accurate as possible, even doing research with the ever-helpful Google always standing by. However, we do not promise perfection or complete accuracy, and some creative liberties have been taken. Therefore we apologise in advance for any physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, technical, or hypothetical inaccuracies (or, more likely, improbabilities) that may crop up. John's blog has been equipped with a special comment section for any complaints which may arise._

_**Warning:** Contains spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall"._

_Share and enjoy!_

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**RETURNING TO TOMORROW**

**Prologue**

_Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true._

The house was a handsome one - tastefully overstated at its front, with lines meant to enhance its stature in the eye of the beholder. Large windows glinted from three broad floors, looking down at the street below as well as at the hedge-enclosed surrounding yard that marched out from beneath the rear veranda. The numerous rooms inside the building were expansive and sumptuously furnished, featuring many hard and prominently polished surfaces offset by the heavy, expensive textiles covering the chairs and sofas. In other words, a house that clearly expressed the financial and political position of its owner.

Sherlock Holmes had just about had enough of the damn place.

His expression set in a scowl, he stalked across the room, which appeared to him to be a cross between an office and a small parlour in Buckingham Palace. He didn't care that his brother had made it exceptionally clear that certain rooms were for "official functions only"; if Mycroft actually expected him to obey such petty restrictions then clearly the other man needed to see a psychiatrist. Besides, deliberately going out of his way to annoy the hell out of Mycroft was about the only fun Sherlock had gotten out of his situation in many weeks now.

He let out a loud breath, reaching with one hand to twitch back the curtain from the almost floor-to-ceiling window. For a few moments he stared absently at the traffic passing by on the road beyond the gate, but soon lost interest. It was the same scene he had been looking out on for God only knew how long, and quite frankly, he was sick of seeing it. What he wouldn't give to be able to actually _be _out there, breathing in the pulse of the streets again...

Sherlock let the curtain fall back into place and turned away from the boring yet tantalizing view. The scowl on his face had changed subtly into a more contemplative sort of frown. He walked slowly over to a stately-looking sofa and sat down, adjusting the folds of the dressing gown draped loosely around his slender frame. Automatically, it seemed, he pressed his fingers together near his lips, while his brain got down to some serious pondering.

Six months, he realised after a moment. He had been stuck here for six months now, and the strain of it was becoming almost unbearable. The atmosphere of his brother's living space - and, indeed, of his brother himself - was just so _stifling_. There was no excitement, nothing to analyse, hardly even anyone to whom Sherlock could speak, since the only visitors were there for "official" reasons, and being in the same room with Mycroft more often erupted in cold silence than any semblance of what could even remotely be termed a conversation.

And of course, it didn't help that this isolation had been almost completely voluntary.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, closing his eyes. He didn't regret this, not really, though the same could not be said for the reasons behind his semi-willing confinement. It had been a necessary step at the time - even Mycroft had seen that, after Sherlock had gone over and explained (most of) it to him. But the younger man's insatiable store of energy did not appreciate being suppressed for days on end, and nor did his constantly over-active mind. And the two had, with increasing frequency, been teaming up - with or without Sherlock's conscious permission - in an attempt to find an outlet. This had resulted in some rather tense moments over the passing weeks, namely when Sherlock's boredom got the better of him and Mycroft returned from a meeting to find his sibling doing, for instance, something bizarrely inexplicable with the antique silver candelabras in the dining room.

Sherlock opened his eyes again suddenly, his mind firmly made up. He didn't care what drivel his brother might start spouting about "precautions" and "laying low". He was going to get _out_, and he was going to find something _interesting _to do.

"I'm warning you again, Sherlock: don't even think about it."

Mycroft's voice was low and testy, as it had been for a majority of the time spent in his younger brother's presence. His eyebrows, always so expressive, were drawn down to create almost one line along his brow, and in his position just inside the doorway, he looked very much the part of a disapproving parent or school teacher.

Sherlock didn't even seem surprised when he heard Mycroft's voice echoing slightly from the doorway; he had rather grown accustomed to having his brother appear out of nowhere, as though trying to catch his reluctant guest off-guard. The unwillingly-semi-retired consulting detective paused, then glanced up, raising his own eyebrows slightly into a look of contrived innocence.

"Think about what, exactly?" he asked, his tone curiously mild.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He appeared to be holding back a great deal of what he would have liked to say in response to that. "You know exactly what," he answered pointedly after only a moment's pause. "Don't think I'm too preoccupied to notice when you start getting _ideas_."

Sherlock gave his brother a look of slight reproval. "Are you so bored that you have to resort to watching me via security camera?" he asked.

"I don't have to, since I always know I can find you in a part of the house you're not supposed to be in." The forced little smile that followed this comment appeared as more of a grimace.

Sherlock glanced around the room, taking in the ornate wood paneling and elegant furniture. "Am I not supposed to be here?" he said then, looking back up with an expression of slight surprise. He could almost see Mycroft's thin veins beginning to throb.

"Don't be impertinent," Mycroft replied sharply, straightening and taking a few slow steps toward the sofa where his brother was seated. "You _know _you aren't, which is, I imagine, exactly why you chose to sprawl yourself in here - half-dressed, I might add." His eyes took in the bare feet and dressing gown with something close to contempt.

The half-teasing look in Sherlock's expression dropped away. "Well, it's not as if I have anywhere to _go_, is it?" he responded pointedly. "And that is _your _doing, so you can stop sneering at my reaction to it."

Ignoring that, Mycroft continued to stare down at him, looking severely annoyed. "And _you_, Sherlock, can put any thoughts of sneaking out of this house out of your _mind_. Is that perfectly clear?"

Sherlock returned his brother's gaze challengingly. "Fine then," he said, his voice cool. "I won't sneak out - I'll just walk out of the front gate."

"No, actually, you _won't_." Mycroft's tone was dangerously low, a sure indication that his nerves were being pushed slowly but surely to the breaking point. "If you recall correctly, Sherlock - and I'm not convinced you do - it was your suggestion to come here in the first place." He raised his chin slightly. "I am, in fact, holding you to your own word."

"That was six months ago!" Sherlock raked a hand through his hair in frustration before glancing up again and fixing Mycroft with an irritable glare. "Exactly how long were you expecting me to imprison myself here under your _benevolent _thumb?" He couldn't help but let the cold sarcasm seep into his voice; after week upon endless week of being in such close contact with his brother, any buffers between thought and word had been worn extremely thin.

Something in Mycroft's face tightened, but all he said was, "As long as is necessary."

"And how long," asked Sherlock slowly, rising from the sofa to lock his brother with an icy stare, "do you consider to be _necessary_?"

Mycroft returned the stare with one of his own, equally cold. "I'll be sure to let you know when the time comes," he replied evenly. "But until that happy hour..." It trailed off, almost a threat.

Sherlock lifted his chin slightly. He wasn't about to let Mycroft brush him away again, like he had so many times previously.

"Sixth months," he repeated, more forcefully, emphasising each individual word. "I think that's quite enough time spent in your company, brother. And you're no happier with the arrangement than I am. So why don't we _make_ it that happy hour _now?_"

Drawing in a slow breath, Mycroft turned his eyes to the ceiling as though seeking patience. "Absolutely out of the question," he said flatly.

"Why?" Sherlock snapped back immediately. He took a step closer, as though daring Mycroft to look at him again. "By what right do you justify keeping me locked up here for any longer than I want to be?"

"Because, Sherlock, you are no longer a celebrated public figure - or should I possibly say that you _are, _in the loosest and most infamous sense of the word?" Mycroft glanced down again, almost accusingly.

Sherlock only continued to glare at him, unwilling to admit that his brother had scraped a nerve with that unpleasantly keen assessment. "It's been long enough," he said harshly after a few moments, trying to make himself believe it as well as Mycroft. "And it's my risk to take, not yours."

"Has it?" his brother enquired mildly, but there was something sharper underneath his words. "_Is _it?"

"_Yes,_" Sherlock gritted out adamantly, resisting the urge to swear loudly at his brother's continuous twisting of the situation at hand. Throwing the other man's words back at him, he added pointedly, "Is that _perfectly clear?_"

"The fact is, it isn't - as you should very well know."

Sherlock blinked, frowning for a brief moment as he tried to work out what was meant by that. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"The fact is," Mycroft explained tersely, "you do _not_ know the current state of what we shall call the _public spirit_. The fact _remains_ that Sherlock Holmes committed a very nasty and _very _public suicide, and not everyone will have forgotten it."

"The fact _also_ remains," replied Sherlock, his voice low and hostile, "that the individuals for whom the spectacle of that act was intended are no longer in the picture. And as you very well know, I don't _care _what the public thinks, particularly six months after the fact."

His brother did not answer right away; he appeared to be chewing on the inside of his lip. "Not the public, perhaps, no," he agreed softly after a few seconds of apparent deliberation. "And what about John?"

"What about him?" Sherlock shot back, almost without thinking, though he knew perfectly well what Mycroft was implying. He caught sight of the expression on his brother's face then, and his eyes narrowed. Of course the other man would try to interfere with _that _aspect as well.

"How I deal with John has nothing to do with you, Mycroft," he said finally, something like a warning in his tone now.

"Or how you don't deal with him, as the case may be. It appears that even six months hasn't been long enough for you to make that particular decision."

"Well, it's rather difficult to consider my options when I haven't even had a chance to test any of them out," retorted Sherlock, acidly, trying to hide the fact that his brother's words had actually stung him.

"Coming from you, that's merely a poor excuse for indecision," Mycroft replied, without even a moment's hesitation.

Sherlock stiffened visibly at that. "Just stay out of it, Mycroft," he hissed after a few more seconds of glaring at the other man. He pivoted abruptly and began stalking away towards the door, unwilling to stand there and continue to exchange barbed words with his sibling. "In fact, stay out of my way entirely." Halfway through the door, he paused to turn and throw a nasty, threatening look back into the room.

"Because if you don't," he breathed pointedly, "I promise you, brother, I _will_ make your life _hell._"

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Please leave your reviews! May the Force be with you.


	2. Chapter 1: When Worlds Collide

_Next chapter up! There shall be more to come soon!_**  
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**Chapter One: When Worlds Collide**

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage._

It had been nearly six months since he had last set foot in this flat. And yet, everything still looked relatively… the same. The various sheets of paper scattered about the rooms had been put into some semblance of order – Mrs Hudson's work, he surmised – and then not so carelessly disarranged again; and in the latter John's hand was easily detectable. It was obvious that the distraught doctor hadn't wanted 221B, like everything else, to reflect the fact that the world's only consulting detective was no longer in residence. But the thin layer of dust, unbroken even on the carpet, was telling. Despite his care in replacing various items in their "lived in" spots, John had not returned here in many weeks, but had probably been vehement in his request that no one else be allowed to move in.

Yes, John was like that sometimes.

Sherlock stepped carefully about the living room, taking in the familiarity, unable to suppress the instinct to triple-check that everything was, indeed, that simple. But he could find nothing out of place that was not supposed to be thus, and eventually he relaxed. Standing by the window, he twitched back the curtain with one hand and watched a cab trundle by on the street below, while his brain worked on the current problem.

To tell John, or not?

He bit thoughtfully at his lip. There was no denying that he wanted to see his friend again – his only friend. After living with the man for so long, it had been surprisingly difficult to remain out of contact, on his own, for half a year. And perhaps subconsciously, the desire to change that situation had been his entire motive in leaving Mycroft's and returning here to Baker Street. But still he wondered – was approaching John Watson again the right thing?

After several long, silent minutes, Sherlock pulled his mobile phone from his coat pocket. It seemed he had hardly used the device in the last few months. But then, who had there been to contact?

He stared hard at the little screen, thinking, weighing his options. He knew vaguely, from what his brother had told him, that John was not doing well. But Mycroft had talked only sparsely with the other man since Sherlock's apparent death; the link between them had been lost. And so Sherlock had been left wondering, perhaps even worrying, unable to see for himself if John was actually alright.

He lifted his eyes again for a moment, glancing around at the place in his life in which someone seemed to have pressed a pause button. Was this how John was feeling right now? Did Sherlock have a right, really, to press play again?

Perhaps not, he realised.

But John, at least, had a right to know the truth.

Sherlock dropped his gaze back to his phone, and after a tiny pause, sent off a quick text.

_221B Baker St._  
_Lunch? (My treat.)_  
_SH_

* * *

Taking a cab was still the easiest way to get about London, but the fact made John less than happy. How many times had he sat in the back, wondering what in all bloody hell they were up to, and where it might take them? _Them. _Even now, months later, he still found himself half opening his mouth to say something, and then realising that he was, in fact, very much alone (the cab driver didn't count; they were anonymous people, anyway, and then John would remember how his friend had once said the same thing, and that had proved the very key to solving the case...)

To spare himself the pain of looking at the empty seat, John stared out the window instead - but he wasn't really watching. The passing city was a blur, a blur of things and people he couldn't quite bring himself to care about anymore, now that there was no longer anyone making obscenely accurate comments about every minute detail in them. Yes, he missed even that. _How is it, John, that you miss the very things you shouldn't? _Like the war. Like Sherlock being - Sherlock.

He had moved on because he had to, because no matter what had happened, he still needed a place to live and food to eat, and it was easier to distract himself when there were other things to think about. A new flat, a new workplace - he wanted to think they were points of stability in an existence that had lost a great deal of its initial meaning, but a small, truthful part of him knew this was not and would never be the case.

John shivered and pulled his jacket collar a little higher. He was always cold these days, and not just because the weather had decided to become sulky and uncooperative - London tended to be like that anyway. No, this was a different kind of cold. This was the feeling of a tree branch stripped raw of its leaves and its bark shell, bared to an icy and merciless wind. It endures because it has no choice, because unless some other force comes along to snap it from its roots, it has nowhere to go and no way to get there. It waits so long that it forgets what it is waiting for; it is caught in the passing of one moment to the next, with no thought of the future and far too much thought of the past that has abandoned it to this numbing solitude.

Not that John could have ever expressed it like that, of course - and it wasn't as if anyone asked him anymore how he was doing. One glance was usually enough.

In fact, he preferred it when people left him well enough alone. At this point, sympathy (what little there was left of it) hurt far more than someone walking by and pretending not to notice him. There was a small handful of individuals he had not yet managed to drive off with his hard exterior, but he could cope with that. Greg Lestrade would shoot him a text or a call once in a while for old times' sake, and if it had been a good day, John might even agree to go out for drinks. Mrs Hudson made almost weekly visits to his impersonal flat, and when her hip was playing up too much, he could usually manage to make the trip over to Baker Street - but never upstairs.

He had spoken with Mycroft twice, and wanted to keep it that way. He doubted he would ever forgive the man for the part he had played, however ignorant.

Without warning, John's phone beeped at him. The sound was slightly startling, jerking him without care from the muddle of his thoughts, and he pulled the device from his jacket pocket with a sigh. A text, but not from a number he recognized. He opened it.

Numbers, letters, darted out at him without meaning, and at the same time meaning far too much. _221B. SH. _No, he thought, not possible. Someone was messing with him, having a joke at his expense. Either that, or he was finally losing it.

With shaking fingers, John sent a reply back.

_Who is this?_  
_JW_

_Who else signs texts thus?_  
_SH_

John stared at the newest text, feeling a rising surge of anger. What was this person trying to do? He bit his lip and replied so quickly that he had to restart again, since his thumbs hadn't worked the first time.

_This isn't funny! WHO IS THIS?_  
_JW_

_I'll have tea ready for you when you arrive. Dash of milk, no sugar? _  
_And you missed the stack of papers behind the desk when you were re-redecorating._  
_SH_

John could feel himself going pale as he read the text. He continued to stare at it, hard, as though by doing so he could make it go away and bring himself back to reality. But - this was reality, wasn't it? He wanted it to be, desperately wanted. And whatever else he might think, the message definitely shouted Sherlock. He was caught, again. He didn't know what to do.

"Stop," he said quickly, leaning forward toward the driver and almost shouting in his anxiety. "Stop - just stop right here - a minute."

God, had that even been coherent? As they pulled over to the curb, John leaned back in the seat again, still staring at his phone. If there was even the slightest chance...but if there wasn't?

_On my way._  
_JW_

When the cab finally pulled up in front of 221B, John got out very quickly. He had been checking his phone at least every thirty seconds during the ride, irrationally, which had done nothing to ease his nerves. Now that he stood in front of the door, though, he found himself hesitating again. Had it been too much to get his hopes up? Would he only find an empty flat, exactly as he had left it when he had sworn he couldn't live there anymore? More than likely. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

He still had the key, of course, but somehow he had forgotten about Mrs Hudson. She came bustling out of her own door as soon as she heard the front one close, and immediately began waving her hands in an agitated sort of way and asking all sorts of questions, half of which he couldn't hear.

"No - no - Mrs Hudson, I'm fine, really - I just -" He took her gently by the shoulders, feeling callous for brushing her off like this. "I just wanted to know if anyone's been upstairs to - lately."

His heart sank when she shook her head, insisting that no one had been in today, nor since he had left - well naturally, who else would go up there? John sighed and turned away. He would check, anyway, just to see, but her words had dashed his hopes. He was shivering again. He mounted the steps slowly, feeling his reluctance growing with each foot he put closer to the flat, and as he reached the door -

The door was open.

His insides were doing very strange things. Taking a deep breath, John moved one step into the flat, looking around with eyes that were afraid to see. He opened his mouth, barely.

"Hello?"

Sherlock leaned forward and peered around the back of the armchair in which he was seated, his expression mild. "Ah, John. Kettle's only just boiled, I'm afraid, I didn't expect you for another few minutes." He snatched something from the table in front of him and held it up. "Biscuit?"

He was surprised to find that his casual greeting was in fact little more than a front he was putting on to maintain some semblance of normality. Beneath that ease, he could actually feel his emotions rising as he looked up at the friend from whom he had willingly estranged himself for so long. It was almost shocking, really, how attached he really was to John, how much he really _cared_about the man.

"Biscuit?" John felt himself falling strangely against the doorframe. "_Biscuit_?" he repeated again, in tones of rising disbelief. "Bloody _hell_, you're not - you're supposed to be - oh, my God."

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and he shook his head, feeling a desperate need to close his eyes, but he didn't. He couldn't, because he was afraid Sherlock would somehow disappear, and he would be left staring at the empty flat again. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath, trying not to succumb to the thought that falling over might be a good idea right about now. With one hand he reached out and clutched the wood of the doorframe for support, wondering vaguely if he looked about to faint.

Sherlock stared at him, frowning slightly. "John? Are you alright? You look positively ill." He cocked his head to one side, scrutinisingly. "What's the matter?" He sniffed at the biscuit in his hand, then glanced quickly at his friend. "Wrong flavour?" he asked, waving the biscuit around. He hadn't actually checked the package to see what they were, just grabbed them off of a shelf in Mrs Hudson's pantry, along with the other necessary tea fixings, while she had been otherwise occupied.

This time, John did close his eyes, though only for a moment. "No," he said shortly, his tone very quiet. "No, you might be surprised to hear that the flavour doesn't actually interest me right now." When he looked up again, he was shaking his head in utter disbelief that bordered almost on fear.

"You're... alive," he whispered.

Continuing to eye his flatmate with a bit of concern, Sherlock nodded, slowly. "Yes," he confirmed, absently placing the uneaten biscuit back onto the table. "I realise you weren't... expecting that..."

John shook his head, swallowing hard. "No," he forced out, "no, I wasn't. I thought... well, you know what I thought. I was supposed to think that - wasn't I?"

Sherlock didn't miss the strange note in his friend's voice. He let his gaze slide down to his hands, and his lips parted slightly without conscious direction from his mind; he wasn't sure what the appropriate response to this was supposed to be. In the end, he only gave a slight nod.

Biting his lip, John turned his head again. "And now - now you - _you -_ come back here - _no _warning - and you just expect - " But the strain of keeping his voice even was too much; he took another step forward, and abruptly found himself shouting.

"What the _hell_ are you playing at?" It felt oddly good to yell at someone after six months of driftng around like a ghost, six months of holding in everything he had felt because it just hurt too much to face it. "You were dead - I _saw_ it - there were at least ten witnesses, damn it! And Mrs Hudson is _convinced _that no one's been here since I - and you - you can't _possibly _be here, Sherlock!"

Despite John's anger, Sherlock couldn't help but smile very slightly at that. He spread his hands wide, adopting a musing expression. "And yet - here I am," he said, with the infuriating tone of one proving a point, trying to bring the conversation back onto a more cordial note. "And all the evidence seems to support my view rather than yours, I'm afraid." Then he glanced at the door. "But would you _please _keep your voice down?" He turned back to the tea table, muttering, "I don't really need Mrs Hudson suffering a heart attack just because she comes up here and finds us having tea."

John had half a mind to refuse - shouting had felt really, really good - but to be honest with himself, he didn't want Mrs Hudson to come upstairs, either. With an effort, he managed to calm down enough to walk a few more steps into the room, then set his gaze firmly on Sherlock.

"Right," he began, "well, you have a _hell_ - " He broke off with a glance toward the door, then continued in a low, hoarse voice, " - a _hell _of a lot of explaining to do."

Sherlock did not turn around again, but merely raised an eyebrow as he checked on the tea. "That's all, then?" he asked mildly. "No 'Welcome back' or 'how are you'? Even a simple 'hello' would have been an improvement on - what is it you're doing, exactly? Besides shouting, I mean." He gestured towards the seat opposite - despite those few steps that John had taken, Sherlock wasn't sure that his friend was capable of walking much further without falling over in delayed shock.

This time, John remained where he was. He didn't think he could walk much further, either, so staying put was probably his best option. "Sherlock," he gritted out through clenched teeth, "it's not exactly usual to be asking a dead man how he's been doing - or did that not occur to you? No, wait, that's right - everything occurs to you, except _maybe_ to tell your one friend in the whole world that you haven't _actually_ committed suicide - but I'm sure you have a _logical _explanation for that, too - don't you?" His voice had risen rapidly again, and he was acutely aware that his hands were beginning to shake.

Still with his back turned, Sherlock heaved a long sigh, the jovial facade fading slightly once more. He moistened his lips absently, trying to think of the best way to approach this. There didn't seem to be one. Finally, after a long moment, he looked round again.

"Why don't you sit down, John?" His voice was steady, belying the fact that he was actively trying to avoid the question that his friend kept shooting at him. Yes, shooting - and Sherlock had very little dodging room.

John stared at him. "No, I think I'll stay here, thanks." It was a stupid decision, and he only made it because he was stubborn, and angry, and relieved, and he didn't know which one was winning out. He took another deep breath, willing himself to be calm, and let it out again.

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "Don't be an idiot," he said brusquely. "You look like you're about to fall over." He wasn't sure that was actually going to happen, of course, but he had to say _something _to get John to sit down and relax, or else the man was liable to do something stupid simply because he wouldn't know of any other way of coping.

For a long moment, John simply glared at him. Then he nodded, curtly. "Fine." Without looking at Sherlock, he crossed the rest of the room and dropped into the opposite chair. He pointedly ignored both tea and biscuits. He then contemplated his hands in his lap silently for a long moment before he looked up again. "So. Why are you here, then?" And why was he so calm?

Sherlock quirked a small smile. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked in reply. And it _was_obvious, painfully so - but his stubborn side wasn't going to admit it unless John fenced him into a corner.

Sherlock was like that sometimes.

Leaning forward, he silently poured the now dark tea. He placed John's cup in front of him and nudged the milk after it, glancing up to see if his friend would take the hint.

Frowning, John looked between the tea and Sherlock with a sort of 'you-don't-really-think-that's-going-to-  
-help' expression - and then proceeded to ignore it entirely. "No," he said again, forcefully. "While it may be obvious to the brilliant and now apparently _immortal_ Sherlock Holmes, it's _not _obvious to me. I'm average. Sorry. Can't help it." There was a nasty acidic tone to his voice that he was not used to hearing from himself.

Sherlock slumped back in his chair, frowning at the obviously put out Doctor Watson. He hadn't expected this. The shock and disbelief, of course, even the yelling was understandable. But this icy reception...no... he hadn't been expecting that part of it.

He bit his lip, his gaze moving from John's stony features to his own hands, linked in his lap and twitching slightly. What could he say to that face?

"I..." He paused, cleared his throat, then continued as casually as possible, "I just wanted to - to drop by. Say hello. See how you were - how you were getting on. Yes."

John was on his feet again almost before Sherlock had finished speaking, shaking with a flood of emotions he didn't know how to deal with. "_And you couldn't have thought of that six months ago?_" he shouted, and this time he didn't care if Mrs Hudson heard. "No - of course not - because you just don't _care_, do you, Sherlock? It doesn't matter what other people were going through, because emotion is always so bloody _impractical_ - that's it, isn't it? Because everything has to have a _reason_ - has to be done right - has to _fit - _well, thanks a lot! You've outdone yourself!"

"John." Sherlock lifted his hands to his face, massaging his temples, while his eyes seemed to close of their own accord as he listened to the explosion of angry words. "John." He said it more forcefully this time, and shaking his head slowly, looked up. "I'm sorry. Truly... sorry. If there had been any other way..."

He hoped that his friend would calm down enough to let the words filter through, but there was no way to be sure. He knew how irrational John could be when it came to the personal aspects of their relationship, like actually_ showing _one another that they were real friends.

"You had - a bloody - _gravestone_!" John exhaled in a shaky breath of air - dusty air, given that he had stirred up a lot of it with his sudden movement. "Do you know what that tells me? Do you have any idea? It means that Sherlock Holmes is dead. _Was _dead," he added sharply a moment later. "And you let me think - you let all of us - me, your brother, Mrs Hudson -" He counted off each name on his fingers. "We all went through that. So are you proud? Did you just suddenly decide you'd had your fun and it was time to drop the final bombshell?"

Breathing heavily, he broke off. He knew he was being unfair, and irrational, but knowing only angered him further. He took a few paces in one direction, then the other, shooting glares at Sherlock in between steps.

Sherlock flipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Why, _why _was it so hard for him to penetrate John's stupid, angry shield of irrationality?

"Yes, I had a gravestone," he said sharply, putting the tips of his fingers together beneath his chin and continuing to speak to the uninterested surface above. "I had to ensure that people thought I was truly dead. And _do you know why?_" He let his face fall again and fixed John with a piercing look. "Because _all of you_ -" he chose the words deliberately - "would have died otherwise. You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade - maybe even Mycroft, though I'm not sure of that." He laid heavy emphasis on each word. "_They would have killed you."_

* * *

Kaelir and I are both review-happy, so please do send 'em in! May the Force be with you.


	3. Chapter 2: The Truth Will Set You Free

_Hmm, these chapters are being edited more quickly than I anticipated. I guess that could be a good or bad thing, depending. Well, onward we go!_

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Truth Will Set You Free**

_You were the best man, the most human - human being - I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie._

John stopped in mid-step. "They? Who's they?" he asked sharply, turning to face Sherlock again. His expression had faded from anger to one of puzzlement, though perhaps only on the surface.

Even as John turned to face him again, Sherlock abruptly rose from his seat, tea forgotten, and moved over to the window. He stared out at the early afternoon traffic, his face inscrutable.

"Moriarty," he said finally, clasping his hands behind his back, giving the illusion of briskness. "Moriarty had people watching you... waiting to kill you." The corner of his mouth twitched downward slightly.

John closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly. "And how... do you know that?" he said, glancing up again, feigning composure. He was vaguely aware of a sinking sensation somewhere in his chest.

Sherlock threw a quick, searching look over his shoulder. "Ohh, of course..." he murmured, slowly turning his head back again. "You don't know..." He could already tell that this wasn't going to be a particularly pleasant conversation, trying to explain to John exactly what had led him to act as he had... He let out a short breath, doing his best to maintain his composure.

"Moriarty..." he began slowly, "was with me on the roof." The words were surprisingly bland when they came out. "He tried to convince me to kill myself because of the stories he had planted everywhere. And when I refused -" Sherlock's voice twisted slightly. "He turned that _suggestion _into an ultimatum. In short, if I didn't die...you would."

John went very still. "Moriarty - was with you?" He could feel his temper rising again. "Sherlock, why the _hell _was he anywhere near that roof?"

Sherlock blinked in resignation at the pointed question, but kept his tone neutral as he replied. "Because I told him to meet me there," he answered quietly.

It began to fall into place then, for John. The steady stream of lies he had been fed but never swallowed, all those bits of information shoved toward him and dragging him without care in another direction even as he had fought to hold on to those things he had always known were true. Deception. And he couldn't stop the thought from crossing his mind: they were so alike, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Masters of the game, kings in a field of pawns. "You told... and the phone call from the paramedics - oh, my God." He gave Sherlock a look of slow shock. "That was you. _You _arranged that - "

"Yes." Sherlock still kept his back to John as he spoke. "I had to make sure you were out of harm's way, just in case..." He didn't feel the need to openly mention that Moriarty had beat him to it.

"Sherlock, should I start _counting _how many times you lied to me?"

"Should I stop explaining, then?" retorted Sherlock, unable to keep the edge from his voice now. He didn't like going through this any more than John did, but the other man seemed determined to call him out for every little fault.

John opened his mouth, ready with an angry response, but he bit it off at the last moment. After a deep breath, he asked, more quietly, "So, what happened up there?"

Sherlock did not reply immediately; it was difficult to find the right words which would properly convey what had occurred without stoking up John's emotional fire again. He pressed his fingers together, thinking.

"I already said that he threatened to kill you," he continued finally, "if I didn't kill myself. I thought that I could make him force his gunmen to stand down, but then -" He broke off for a moment, drawing in a harsh breath. "But Moriarty removed any chance I had of calling the assassins off by shooting himself." He found himself replaying the scene in his head, moment by awful moment, watching the other man pulling the gun from beneath his coat, and a moment later, lying there in a spreading pool of blood, still with a trace of the manic, triumphant smile on his features...

Judging by the look on John's face, he was remembering that day, too. He bit his lip, looking sideways, up - anywhere but at Sherlock. "I suppose... but, wait," he muttered, very quietly, his chest tightening again, "Sherlock - when you say he _shot _himself - "

"Shot himself, yes, in the head. Killed himself, if that clarifies anything."

John exhaled loudly. "That's news to me, then. Right." And it was. Mycroft had said nothing about Moriarty's death, nor had there been any hint in his expression - but no, John had not looked at him that day, not even when Mycroft had dropped his brother's cold, solid phone into John's palm once there had been no use for it anymore.

"And you know the rest of it." The way in which Sherlock forced the words out, quickly, made it clear that he didn't really want to go into any more detail at this point. He fell silent for a few moments, and then spoke again, abruptly.

"I'm sorry I frightened you, John." He turned, finally, to regard his friend, and the pained look in his eyes was sincere. "I'm sorry I - hurt you. But as I said, I didn't have a wide range of options at the time."

John nodded - a quick, terse nod, but it was the best he could manage at the moment by way of an apology. "So, erm..." He slid his hands into his pockets, clearing his throat and trying to act like he hadn't been a complete ass a few moments ago. "Where've you been?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to look up at the ceiling. "Mycroft's _manor_," he replied, putting a distasteful twist onto the second word, and thus clearly expressing his feelings regarding the place.

John stopped short again as that information filtered through. "Mycroft's... your brother - _he _knew about this?" His voice was dangerously even again.

"He had the resources I needed to help me disappear. He was also the only person I could trust to keep my secret once I told him."

Twisting his head around very sharply, John gave his friend a hard stare. "The only person you could trust," he repeated flatly.

Sherlock caught the accusing look, but only returned it steadily. "I'm sure you've realised by now, John, why I couldn't tell you, either beforehand or afterward. You're not unintelligent."

"Then why the _hell _did you expect me to believe what you said?" John glared at him, and for the first time he felt something rising inside his chest that was remarkably close to hatred. "The last thing I got from you - the very last thing you said - that _stupid_ phone call - and it was a _lie_, Sherlock. I know it was."

"I -" Sherlock found that he didn't quite know what to say to that. Of course it had been a lie, and of course he hadn't really expected John to believe it (though some deeper part of him had quietly hoped that he _would_); but how was he supposed to explain exactly why he had said it?

"I didn't... I wasn't sure... you would," he said eventually, his voice tentative, almost cautious. Sherlock shook his head slowly, not really meeting John's eyes now. "But there was a chance... I just...hoped..." He trailed off, sighing. He knew he wasn't going to be able to explain this well, if at all.

John didn't answer, only shook his head and let out a soft noise of disgust. He couldn't believe that Sherlock was trying to justify this.

"John." Sherlock reached out to touch the other man's arm briefly, and his eyes searched that angry face. "I was only trying to - exclude you - from the lies Moriarty created. I didn't want people to turn on you after I was gone. If they all believed that you had been taken in as well..."

"Well, you _certainly _managed that," John shot back harshly, pulling away.

Sherlock couldn't really think of anything to say to that. He had already apologised - twice, in fact - and had sincerely meant it both times. What was the point in chewing over it again? He pressed his fingers together and turned to stare out the window again, waiting to see if John would belabour the point further or just let it drop.

There was a very long pause, and then - "Six months, Sherlock." John's voice was very quiet. "Six months, and you have no idea what it's been like for the rest of us." There was an almost haunted look in his eyes.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh, but did not turn around. "No, you're... you're right," he murmured. "I don't see how I could..." He gave a helpless little shrug.

"But that wasn't really a concern at the time, was it?" There it was again, that note of bitterness.

"Not the most pressing one, no..." Sherlock could tell that his words were only fuelling John's emotional imbalance, but under the circumstances, he couldn't really voice anything but the apparently painful truth.

John turned sharply away. "And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Not with that coming from you."

"John, please." This time Sherlock did move, so that he was facing the other man. "I already explained why I had to do it. I didn't have a _choice. _Hurting you..." He shook his head, then finished, "Hurting you was not the intent."

"And since when did that matter?" John demanded loudly. "It's a bit late to be suddenly deciding that you _care_, isn't it?"

Sherlock bit his lip, but only stared levelly at his flatmate. "Would you rather I didn't, then?" he asked, very softly.

"I... don't know." John passed a hand over his forehead, trying to think reasonably but unable to do so. For nearly half a year he had hoped for this, for Sherlock to be somehow, impossibly alive, and yet now - now he suddenly found himself torn between wanting it and resenting it.

Sherlock continued to eye the other man for several long moments. He could see the raw emotion playing like the ebb and flow of a violent tide across John's features, could see the struggle of his friend's mind in trying to reconcile the past with the present. But Sherlock wasn't sure there was anything else he could do or say to sway John in one direction or another.

"John..." The consulting detective's voice sounded almost resigned, but at the same time had a sort of strange edge to it. "Will you at the very least... accept my apology?"

Another strange question. And this time, John was surprised to find that he had his answer ready.

"No."

There was a very long pause. Sherlock stared hard at John, unsure of what to say after that flat, harsh denial, which the other man hadn't even seemed to think about before delivering.

"Why?" he queried finally, unable to completely hide the fact that John's simple word had rather painfully hit its mark.

Carefully, knowing how much he would be showing with one glance, John met his eyes. "Why should I?"

Sherlock held John's gaze as he quietly replied. "Because I offered it."

"I can't." John shook his head, his eyes stinging suddenly. "Not after what you did. I just - can't."

An awful silence fell, one that made John want to cringe. "Sherlock," he went on after a long pause, and this time he turned back to face the man, "what you _need_ to understand is that - a lot's changed. And nothing - _nothing_you say is going to make a difference when it comes to that."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, glancing down at the floor for a moment before looking up again. "I do understand that part of it," he said. "Obviously things have changed for me as well."

John met his eyes very carefully. "At least you've known your best friend is alive."

"Yes..." A small frown appeared on Sherlock's features. "I do wish I could have been able to reciprocate..."

"Yeah, well, so do I," John murmured. What else was there to say, though?

Silence fell again, but he was beginning to find that silence after hearing Sherlock's voice echoing around the flat for the first time in so long was not what he wanted. "Right," he said quickly. "Right, well, erm - are you moving back in, then? From your brother's?" He swallowed, finally nerving himself to ask the question he had been afraid to this whole time. "Are you... staying?"

Sherlock turned and glanced around the room thoughtfully, lifting his fingers to his lips. "Yes, I think so," he answered musingly, after a moment's contemplation. Then he frowned. "Providing Mrs Hudson doesn't mind, of course..."

John cleared his throat and shrugged. "Well, yes, once she's gotten over the heart attack you're about to give her, I'm sure she can manage." He hesitated. "Do try not to put her in shock, won't you, Sherlock? I know she got used to surprises with you living upstairs, but this is a bit different." He was aware of a sudden sense of relief; they had gotten past the hard bit, the accusations, the misunderstanding, the anger. This was something they could talk about lightly, without stepping on eggshells.

Sherlock gave his friend a queer look. "Of course I'll try not to," he retorted. "Then again, if you're so concerned about my direct methods, I'm sure you can put it to her _gently_." He quirked a tight smile.

At that, John quickly held up a hand. "No, _no_," he broke in firmly. "This is your problem, so you can deal with it. I'm not telling her for you." He also wasn't quite sure if Mrs Hudson might think he had finally cracked up if he told her that Sherlock was back.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, still with that strange smile on his face. "My problem?" he repeated, apparently somewhat amused by the phrase. Of course this wasn't _his_ problem - the fact was, the situation was for the most part _John's _problem. After all, it was John who was going to have to adjust to reuniting with his best friend. Sherlock straightened his shoulders briskly. "Well, I'd better go tip her off, then," he suggested, and began heading across the room, past John, towards the door.

Running a hand over his forehead, John turned and followed him out onto the landing. "And I'd better come with you in case she ends up needing a doctor," he muttered, half to himself, though he was almost certain Sherlock would be able to hear him.

Sherlock did indeed hear him, and he couldn't help a slight chuckle from escaping his throat. Out on the landing, he abruptly pivoted on his heel, looking at John with a rare genuine smile. "John... I have missed you, you know." And he offered his hand.

John might be just an average man, more often idiotic than intelligent, quite often a hindrance, but... that didn't make him any less of a friend.

When John took the the hand in his own, clasped it warmly, that was all he had meant to do. The response of a soldier to a friend. But he suddenly realized he couldn't just leave it at that, for he had missed Sherlock terribly, more than he had let even himself know, because it hurt too much. Was a handshake really all he could give to the friend he had been so certain was gone forever?

So, he clasped Sherlock's hand, and then abruptly pulled him into a hug - brief, and rather awkward, but he didn't care. Then he stood back again and glanced from Sherlock to the floor, and back. "I... well, I missed you, too. Obviously."

Sherlock was rather taken aback when his friend moved forward and embraced him warmly. He stood uncomfortably for a moment, then awkwardly reached around and patted John carefully on the back, hoping that would suffice on_ his _end of the hug. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, but with all the yelling that John had been doing, Sherlock had rather lost track of the emotions probably hidden beneath the anger.

He pulled back as his friend did, and watched the other man playing table tennis with his eyes.

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock smiled a little, but didn't say anything more than that.

John nodded a bit, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "We should, erm, probably go down now," he suggested, waving a hand slightly in that direction. "Before she comes up here and sees you without, you know, being prepared for it." He finally met Sherlock's gaze, and managed a faint smile.

"Excellent idea, John." Sherlock clapped his friend on the shoulder, winked, then pivoted and headed down the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson! Have you got anything around for lunch?"

* * *

This just about wraps up the "setting the scene", intro part of the story. From here on the pace shall pick up a bit. Let us know how we're doing - send in those reviews! May the Force be with you.


	4. Chapter 3: Of Vegetables And Violins

_A slight break in the tension, this chapter - something a bit more laid-back and humorous. But there shall be more drama to come!_

_And before anyone asks, yes, I do know that a satsuma is a fruit, not a vegetable. Think "animal vegetable mineral" instead, and make alliteration happy._

* * *

**Chapter Three: Of Vegetables And Violins**

_Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._

For the first few days, having Sherlock back in 221B - and being back there himself - was almost like getting to know the man all over again. It would take some getting used to, John thought, to open the fridge and find that the inedibles greatly outnumbered the actual food products, and to find again that he was receiving texts ten times a day that were at best a nuisance, and at worst a bloody inconvenience. Part of him still wondered if this might not be all a dream, but if it was, it was one of the oddest he had ever had, and that in itself convinced him that Sherlock was really there. John didn't have odd dreams. Horrific ones, yes, but not strange, at least not in the quirky Sherlock sense of the word.

He found, too, that he could not stop staring. He tried to be subtle about it, but it was hard when he didn't realise he was doing it half the time - though Sherlock certainly did, and seemed determined to make a point of mentioning it after each occurrence. The tall form of his friend sprawled in the armchair by the fireplace was a sight John had never expected to see again, though, so he felt perfectly justified in telling Sherlock to shut up whenever the subject arose.

The issue of Sherlock's apology had not come up in conversation since that first day, nor did John want it to. His answer had not changed, though he hoped it would, with time. Maybe Sherlock understood that, and maybe he didn't, but whichever the case was, John had awoken that first morning after moving back in to sounds of movement in the kitchen, and had come downstairs to find Sherlock straightening with a mug of tea in his hand.

John thought nothing of it, at first. "Hi," he said. "Erm - you're up early. And loudly, I should add."

Sherlock shrugged casually as he turned to face John. "Couldn't sleep," he said after a moment, with an unusually expressive twitch of his eyebrows. He seemed to dither for a few seconds, then somewhat awkwardly held out the mug in his hand.

"Tea?"

"What?" John blinked, looking between Sherlock and the tea.

"Tea." Sherlock frowned slightly as he waved the mug a bit closer to John's face, coming dangerously close to spilling the hot liquid onto his friend's toes. "As in, do you want it?"

"Sherlock, careful, you're going to - " Eyes widening in alarm, John hurried to grab the mug before the tea ended up on the floor. "Erm - thanks," he said slowly, feeling puzzled. "Any special reason, or... were you just that bored, really?"

Sherlock allowed the other man to take control of the tea, while his eyes took on an almost confused look. He hadn't thought that John would feel the need to ask _why _he had made tea - after all, it was John who was supposed to have a brain that was wired along these lines.

"I... just wanted... to make you tea," Sherlock said finally.

"Oh." John felt a sudden urge to laugh; he countered it by taking a hurried sip of tea, and earned a burned tongue for his efforts. "Nice of you," he added quickly, nodding. "Very... thoughtful."

"Was it?" Sherlock turned away, trying to hide the ghost of a pleased smile that flitted across his face.

"Yeah, and now I'm wondering where Sherlock Holmes is hiding. Haven't seen him, have you?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock pivoted around again, now appearing definitely confused. "I'm right here."

Smiling, John shook his head and buried his nose in the mug again. "Never mind."

There were other things, though, that tended to be less awkward and more aggravating - realising, for instance, that he had actually become accustomed to having his possessions to himself. With Sherlock back at Baker Street, all hopes of that were dashed. His laptop was no longer private property, and nor, it seemed, was his phone - for John had only realised halfway on his walk to the store that his mobile was missing. Well, perhaps missing wasn't quite the correct term. He had a strong suspicion where it was - most likely in Sherlock's pocket - because for whatever reason, his friend had not wanted to use his own, and had not bothered to ask if he could use John's before helping himself.

John let out an aggravated sigh. Yes, it was starting all over again. Was he sorry? God, no.

He was, however, determined to set Sherlock straight on this matter, at least. He began scanning the busy street for a telephone box as he walked, and sped up when he spotted one just around the corner. Sherlock would probably make up some idiotic excuse as to why he had the phone, but it was worth a try.

As he opened the door, he was a bit surprised to find that the phone was already hanging off its cord. Someone must have left in a hurry, he thought, though it was a bit odd they hadn't taken another two seconds to hang the phone back up properly. John rolled his eyes and picked it up.

"...tonight, eleven fifteen, Finsbury Gate. You will have ninety seconds to make yourself known. Do not be late." Click.

The usual dial tone resumed.

John blinked, then frowned. "Hello? Who's this - hello?"

But there was no answer, only the insistent ringing of the dial tone. Distractedly, John set the phone back in its holder and stared unseeingly out at the traffic-filled street. What had that been about? The voice had been a woman's, though harsh and low, almost as though it had been an attempt to disguise it, somehow. And who went to the park at nearly midnight?

He was still thinking about it as he dialed Sherlock's number; he couldn't seem to get the strange message out of his head.

* * *

_Sorry, been out of touch. How is last month's murder case coming along? I hope you've realised by now that the boyfriend couldn't have killed her, as he was obviously busy cheating on her at the time. Try the mother's bureau._

_SH_

Sherlock hit the send button on his phone, rather wishing he could see the look on Lestrade's face when the other man next checked his mobile inbox. He laid his phone on the table beside the sofa and pulled up his laptop again, proceeding to delete the more offensive comments that had been left on his website after word of his apparent suicide had got out.

A moment later, his phone emitted the "incoming call" noise. He snatched it up, hoping to see Lestrade's number, but was disappointed to find instead a number he did not know. He looked at it for a moment, thinking. Oh, of course... John.

"Is this important?"

"_Yes, of course it's important!_" John's voice was severely annoyed. "_You nicked my phone and didn't give it back! Not to mention you didn't bother to tell me you had nicked it in the first place._"

Sherlock leaned back, one hand still moving across the keys of his laptop. "You were about to go out. I didn't want to bother you. Oh, did you need to text someone?"

Another sigh of aggravation escaped John's lips. "_It bothered me when I noticed it was gone_. _I had to use the phone box, obviously, and then I -_" He broke off. "_Never mind. I'll be back in a few hours._"

"Right." Sherlock's response sounded either distracted or bored - or both. Exhaling loudly, he hung up and resumed his digital purge.

* * *

"What did you need my phone for, anyway?"

John was speaking almost as soon as he pushed open the door to the flat, laden with groceries and looking a bit flustered. He immediately deposited the bags on the half-covered table in the kitchen, looking around once in a while as he began to unpack things.

Sherlock glanced up from where he was still sprawled on the couch. "Just wanted to see how many girlfriends you've gone through," he answered casually, tossing the phone in question across the room onto a chair. "Did you get the satsumas I wanted?"

Rolling his eyes, John banged a carton of milk onto the table with rather more force than was necessary. "No, I forgot," he said shortly. "Next time you want them, get them yourself. Why does it matter how many girlfriends I've gone through?"

Sherlock abruptly moved to a sitting position and then seemed to bounce onto his feet. "Doesn't matter," he replied. "Just curious if you still had such a keen interest." He moved over to the table, examining the groceries with a frown.

"Really, how hard is it to remember a single request?"

"It wasn't a single request, it was _one _request among all the other things I had to remember." John tossed the empty bags into a corner. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I don't have your memory, and you know that, so you may as well accept your loss."

Sherlock let out a sigh, almost seeming to pout. He flopped back onto the sofa, picked up his phone again, and began texting rapidly.

"So..." he muttered, his eyes flicking back and forth across the screen, "what else were you doing besides purchasing comestibles?"

John spared him an exasperated glance before opening the fridge. "I went for a walk," he answered shortly. "Is that really so - oh, God, Sherlock, what is this?" There was a large bag on one of the shelves, and he was trying not to see too closely what was inside it.

Sherlock didn't even glance up to see what the other was talking about. "Intestines. Not sure what's wrong with them yet."

"Intestines. Right. Obviously." Shaking his head - and pointedly not looking at the bag - John began putting the groceries away. He would have to get used to this again, he supposed. "And what exactly have you been doing, besides looking through my phone?"

Sherlock dropped his phone onto the nearby table. "Nothing much," he admitted, though he didn't sound quite as displeased as he normally would have, it seemed. He stretched his arms back behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a slight frown. "What have you done with my violin?" he queried after a moment. "I didn't find it when I was...sorting through things."

John stopped what he was doing, shutting the fridge door with a thud. "Sorting through things" had a rather ominous ring to it, but that wasn't what he was worried about now. "Violin?" he repeated slowly. "Oh, erm, I... I took it. It's still back with some of the things I haven't brought over yet."

Sherlock dropped his head, shifting onto one elbow so that he could throw a curious look at his friend. "Took it? Why did you take it? You don't play." Even his eyes seemed to be frowning.

"No, of course I don't," John replied irritably. Explaining his reasons to Sherlock wasn't going to be easy, though. Not when it involved _sentiment_. "Do you - honestly not understand why someone would do that?"

Sherlock considered that for a moment as he stared at his friend. "Keepsake, yes?" he suggested. "Reminder. Token of remembrance. But why the violin, why not something else?" He gestured around the flat. "What's so special about it? What does it _mean_, that nothing else would?"

"I wasn't about to take the bloody skull," John said, exhaling in a noise of irritation. He flapped his hand in a gesture that he thought was supposed to convey something, but probably didn't. "Look, I'm not going to try to explain it, since you obviously won't understand. I'll give it back, OK? As soon as I get everything else."

Something like a grin ambled onto Sherlock's face as he continued to look at John. "No, really, try. I'm curious now." And it was the honest truth - he really was curious about what exactly it was that made an ordinary violin such a precious momento of an apparently dead friend.

"Nope, not happening." John clamped his mouth shut.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock sat up, studying the stubborn look on his friend's face. He found a kind of shiftiness there, something between guilt and embarrassment.

"Because I'm not going to try to rationalise something that's not logical to you of all people, that's why."

"Oh, come on, John. Try me." Sherlock pressed his fingers together, still scrutinising John's features, and smirked just a tiny bit. "_Enlighten _me."

John let out a long sigh, then moistened his lips, casting about for the right words, the ones that would convey what somehow made sense in his head. "You, playing - it's different. People wouldn't expect that, Sherlock, not from a man who jumps at every chance to bury his nose in a new murder." There was a short way of saying it, but he didn't want to. _It makes you more human._

Sherlock tilted his head a bit, still staring. "Hmm. So you're saying it shows a different side of me, is that it? One that's not so unbalanced? Oh, don't worry, I know what people think of me..."

"Well, I'm glad you know, because people do seem to tell you a lot." John put his hands on his hips, looking steadily back at him. "Yes, that's - more or less what I was thinking. OK, is it?"

"Fine, fine." Sherlock shrugged easily. "Not much I can do about it now, is there? Providing you do return it, of course." It was touching, in a way, really... though not in any way he felt the need to pursue much further.

"Of course I'll return it." John shot him another glance before turning back to the remaining groceries. "I don't know what else you think I'd do with it."

"Nothing at all," was the murmured response, and Sherlock turned away again to resume his texting.

* * *

Reviews are eagerly welcomed, please leave your thoughts for Kaelir and myself. May the Force be with you.


	5. Chapter 4: A Shot In The Dark

_I know what you're thinking - finally some action, right? More to come soon!_

* * *

**Chapter Four: A Shot In The Dark**

_Look at that, Mrs Hudson. Quiet, calm, peaceful... isn't it hateful?_

Though in the back of his mind he was aware that it was a stupid idea, John had decided, quite firmly, that he was not going to tell Sherlock about the mysterious directions he had overheard. Sherlock would only go dashing off without explanation, muttering theories under his breath in a never-ending stream of conjecture - and if it turned out to be something interesting, he would get involved whether or not he really should. And besides that... John hated to admit it, but there was a small part of him that occasionally chafed at being the sidekick, the one who was always following, usually without a clue. This time, he wanted to investigate something for himself.

To make things easier, John had already put on his coat and was walking out the door when he called "I'm going out for a bit!" over his shoulder. No doubt Sherlock would think he had some strange late-night date to go to. And if something came up, he could always call.

John had the cab let him off about half a block away from the park, keenly aware that he could be intruding on something and that certain reasonable precautions should be taken. The cabby gave him an odd look but a shrug; he was probably used to people going to strange places at strange hours in London. Every city had its share of bizarre customers.

When the gate of the park loomed up out of the darkness, lit only by a dull street lamp, John began to slow his pace. The brickwork of the entrance was distracting, and he couldn't see anything unusual - not yet - but that hardly meant there was nothing there. He slipped inside, very quietly.

The sound of indistinct male voices lowered in hissing whispers echoed slightly from a stand of trees a few yards to the left of the park entrance. Every so often, the muted light of a torch flashed like a passing vehicle, briefly illuminating the surrounding area. But as John eased through the gate, the voices suddenly fell silent. There was a long pause, and then a torchlight was abruptly thrown in John's path.

A second later the resounding crack of a bullet exploding out of a handgun split the night air.

John threw a hand up to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light, then abruptly flung himself to the side; the bullet missed him by inches, if not less. The shock sent adrenalin rushing through his body in a flood that almost made him dizzy, but he had less than a second, he knew, to dash off the sensation in time to avoid a more precise shot. He cleared his thoughts with a shake of his head - that was all it had taken during the war, and that was all he needed now.

Swearing violently under his breath, John ran for it.

The pounding of the blood in his head mingled with the rapid thuds of footfalls behind him - many footfalls. There were at least three of them in pursuit, he guessed, and given the odds he was not inclined to risk a backward glance to see exactly who it was that was chasing him. He skidded around a corner just in time to avoid another bullet, which ricocheted off the brick building to his right.

Even as he ran, he fumbled inside his jacket pocket for his phone. His fingers were slippery with sweat, but he finally grasped it and pulled it out. Finding the number while making a desperate sprint wasn't easy, and God help him if his pursuers caught a glimpse of the phone screen.

Sherlock's number was ringing out too many times for his liking. "Come on, answer your bloody phone," John hissed urgently, his breath shaking with the pounding of his own feet.

Sherlock was, at that moment, deep in what could be called meditative thought, though he probably would have simply termed it "thinking" and left it at that. Thinking, yes... and mostly about John. The other man was clearly having a bit of a rough time adjusting - or, re-adjusting - to living with his former and once again current flatmate. Sherlock had certainly tried to be as normal about the whole thing as possible, but apparently his "normal" was more of a violent jolt on John's end.

And speaking of John...

Sherlock frowned slightly as his friend's number appeared on his phone. Where had John gone off to, and so suddenly? It was completely atypical for him to dash off without a word of explanation. Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips, trying to reason it out.

Ah well. He might as well take the easy route this one time. He lifted his phone and hit the talk button.

"John? Where'd you go dashing off to earlier?" A long pause, during which he could hear the other man's frantic breathing and racing footsteps. "Are those gunshots I'm hearing?"

John could have shouted with relief at hearing his friend's voice, but considering his current situation, it wasn't the best of ideas. Instead, he gritted back, as loudly as he dared, "_Yes_, Sherlock, those are gunshots!" Another one, far too close, pinged off a metal railing nearby, and he flung himself down another darkened side street. "And before you ask, yes, they're aimed at me, and yes, I am doing my bloody best not to get hit -"

He broke off, breathing raggedly, as he turned again and caught a glimpse of a black figure silhouetted against a bright lamp at the end of the street. It, too, was still running, and in a slight surge of panic John began to wonder who was going to slow down first.

"Sherlock, I need help!"

Sherlock frowned and stared hard at the phone through which John's frantic voice could be heard. "What do you want _me_to do? You're there and I'm not. Just keep running." Another pause. "Turning to see how far ahead you are is the best way I know of losing that lead. Find a main road and try to get a cab."

John resisted the urge to throw the phone against a wall as he ran. "Sherlock, I'm not going to have _time _to get a cab! And," he added, gasping for more air, "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up -"

He let out a volley of swearing, because there was one more rather important thing: he had no idea where he was.

"You're being far too dramatic about it, John," Sherlock replied almost calmly. "The human body is capable of running for far longer than the approximate three minutes you've been at it, particularly with all the adrenaline pumping through you right now. Panicking isn't going to help."

"I'm getting shot at and I don't even know why! How is panic not appropriate here?" Anxiously, John cast a glance behind him, and almost immediately wished he hadn't; he felt the toe of his shoe catch on a ridge in the pavement and he stumbled forward, barely able to catch himself in time. As though on cue, he heard another gunshot crack from somewhere behind him.

"Good God, John, you _are _going to get shot if you keep thinking like that." Sherlock moved from the couch where he had been lying over to the door, pulling on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. 'Where are you?"

"I don't _know!_" John cast a frantic look around him as he sprinted, trying to get his bearings. "I'm near - wait, I think -" He hissed the name on the first street sign he could find - one he had never heard of. "And I hope to God that means something to you because I haven't got a clue!"

Sherlock nodded even though he knew John couldn't see the gesture. "Of course it means something," he replied, opening the door. "On my way. Try to stay alive until I get there, won't you?" With that, he ended the call and disappeared down the stairs.

It took Sherlock only a few moments to flag down a cab. If John had any sense he would be running back towards Baker Street, and if nothing happened to trip things up, Sherlock would end up meeting him somewhere along the way. Leaning forward, he began scanning both sides of the road in search of a fleeing Dr. Watson.

John was indeed dashing in what he hoped was the direction toward the flat, though in his current state, he couldn't be sure. The sounds of pursuit had faded slightly, but he knew that didn't mean anything; there were plenty of places for the chasers to fall back and come at him from a side street. It only served to wind his nerves more tightly.

"Come on, Sherlock, where are you..."

Even with the deceptive play of light over shadow that filled London's darkened streets, it wasn't difficult to recognise the figure that hurtled out of an alleyway half a block ahead of the cab. Sherlock's gaze quickly went past his friend, to the spaces behind and beyond, but no one else could be immediately seen.

"Pull over," he ordered swiftly, pointing to an open space by the pavement a few feet from John. As soon as the cab reached the curb, Sherlock threw open the door and leapt out, just in time to grab John by the arm.

With a startled gasp, John did a complete turnaround, his own weight nearly causing him to stumble to his knees. "What - oh, God - Sherlock - where did you -" He broke off, shaking his head and struggling for breath.

"Never mind the stupid questions, you know the answer already. At least you would if you stopped to think about it for a moment." Sherlock pulled his friend upright, looking him over. "What happened? Are they still following you?" His eyes darted back to the alleyway again.

John glanced back, his expression of relief fading to a surprised frown. "I - I don't know. They were." He paused, drawing in a deep, calming breath. "Look, they may have given up, but can we not take the chance? A few of those shots barely missed me," he added tersely.

Sherlock, however, continued to stare at the alley with narrowed eyes. "Cab's waiting," he said, gesturing behind him. "You go on..." He started forward, clearly intent on investigating.

John had opened the door of the cab, but he closed it again with a slam a second later. "No - _no_, Sherlock, not a good idea. You hear me? _Bad idea_."

Sherlock pivoted slightly, wearing something like an innocent frown on his face. "What do you mean, bad idea?" he asked mildly. "Someone just tried to shoot my flatmate, don't you think that's cause for investigation?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned away again and headed towards the alley with that particular set to his shoulders that proclaimed he was rather enjoying himself. "Besides," he called back, "I want to get there before the police show up."

"Wait - Sherlock -" John wavered for a moment, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. Why hadn't he expected this? He should have expected this. With a highly exasperated sigh, he hurried after his friend, casting nervous glances into the darkness. "Are you mad?" he demanded, his voice a low hiss. "Apart from the usual, I mean." After a moment of hesitation, he briefly sketched what had happened the moment he had stepped through the park gate. "Look, I didn't even _see _anyone before they started shooting!"

"No..." Sherlock murmured, in that distracted voice which said he already knew what anyone else cared to say and was busy with his own line of thinking. "But they saw you... the question is, of course, what were you doing at Finsbury Park at this time of night? Let's get that cleared away, and then we can work on the shooting part of it."

"I was..." John stopped, folding his arms and wondering how Sherlock had managed to get him on the defensive already. "I overheard something a bit, well, strange. Thought I'd have a look." He tried to toss it off casually, but casual didn't usually work so well with Sherlock.

"Hmm... you didn't get much of a look, then. What was it you overheard? Not something that needed hearing, apparently, judging from how far through the gate you got..." Sherlock continued to wend his way through alleys and across wider streets, following the subtle trail that John had left in his haste to get away.

John rolled his eyes, hurrying to keep up and trying not to admit that he did feel a lot safer with Sherlock for company. "I didn't hear it over there," he explained irritably. "It was back near the flat, just before I called you - remember, from the telephone box?"

"What?" Sherlock stopped abruptly, turning to look at John. "You're saying you overheard this in a telephone box?' He raised his eyes, brow furrowed. "Who organises a secret meeting using a public phone...?"

"How do you know it was a -" John stopped himself. Of course Sherlock knew. "Someone who - didn't want the call to be traced, from one end or the other?" he suggested. "The phone was hanging there when I went in - I just caught the last bit of it, I think."

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, musing aloud as he continued to walk quickly. "Whoever was the intended recipient of the message was interrupted. They wouldn't have left it hanging otherwise. So we've got two sides who don't trust each other - trying to reach some sort of agreement - but neither wants it to be traced or otherwise made public..."

"And," John added, determined to be realistic, "neither of us have seen or heard anything else about them. Not exactly a lot to go on."

"Not at first, no," muttered Sherlock, now scanning the ground. "We may yet find some clues, though, if we hurry... you interrupted them, which means they may have left something behind...'

With the darkness pressing in on them again, John was beginning to feel his nerves resurfacing. Abruptly, he dashed forward a step and caught Sherlock by the arm, pulling him around. "Sherlock - no," he said firmly, "Not tonight. It's late, and I've just been running for my life, and I don't feel up to getting shot at again, all right? And I don't want you getting shot at either," he added pointedly.

Sherlock let out a noise of frustration. "We've got to go _now_, John, before they have a chance to clear out! Come on, just one look round the park is all I'll need. Then we can - go get a drink, or something." With so little going on, he was keenly interested in something as intriguing as a secret rendezvous, and particularly because the parties involved were taking such precautions so as not to be caught in the middle of it.

"_No._" Setting his jaw, John tried to steer Sherlock back the way they had come. "Drink, yes. Look, no. Whatever was going on, it's none of your business and - and it's only mine because I was stupid enough to stick my nose in. Got that? Good. Let's go."

Rather sulkily, Sherlock allowed John to turn him around and point him back in the direction of the main road. "Are these things ever our business, really?" he asked after a few moments. He buried his hands in his coat pockets, looking supremely disappointed that he had been denied his playtime.

"No, which is why you're so difficult to get through to sometimes," John said, releasing Sherlock's arm after a moment. "And also why you manage to annoy _so_many people on a regular basis." Not that he expected Sherlock to care whose nerves he got on.

"They annoy _me_ on a regular basis," Sherlock corrected. "Blundering around like idiots...well, that's what they _are_, so I don't suppose I can blame them _too _much..."

"Like me, you mean." John raised his eyebrows pointedly as they walked.

Sherlock nodded briskly. "Exactly." Then he paused, glancing at his friend. "I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course, but you do tend to..."

"It's exactly what you would have done!" John exclaimed indignantly. "You wouldn't have just _left _it, would you? No. Definitely not."

"No," was Sherlock's calm reply, "but I would have done a better job than you did. Did you honestly not think they would have some sort of lookout?"

John let out his breath through his nose, trying to think of a good response to that. He honestly didn't have one. "All right," he admitted, throwing his hands up, "it was a stupid idea. Pretty sure I found that out, actually. Sorry."

They had reached the cab again (John wondered absently how long it would have waited for them) and he got in without another word, not sure if he was more irritated at Sherlock or himself, or simply still in minor shock from what had happened. A combination of all three, possibly. A drink was sounding like an excellent idea - he definitely needed something stronger than tea after all that.

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-puppy eyes- Reviews are right up there with sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows! May the Force be with you.


	6. Chapter 5: Failure To Connect

_Another conversational interlude. Sherlock and John arguing is really just fun to write. Stay tuned - next chapter is where the real fun begins..._

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**Chapter Five: Failure to Connect**

_I don't want the world believing you're a fraud. _

Upon reaching 221B and walking through the door of the flat, Sherlock immediately shed scarf and coat onto a nearby chair and began pacing around the living room, his offer of a drink apparently forgotten. In light of how quickly the as yet unknown parties had begun shooting at John, it seemed they were either desperate or simply taking zero chances of being caught. He preferred to go with the latter theory, since desperate men made mistakes, and so far Sherlock had found none of those.

"What did the person on the phone say, what were their exact words?" He fired questions at John even as he continued his pacing. "What did they sound like? Male, female? Any identifying vocal qualities?"

Feeling suddenly drained, John flung himself in the armchair by the fireplace. "Female," he said slowly, "but she was trying to disguise her voice - it was really low, sort of hoarse." He shook his head and rubbed one hand over his eyes; watching Sherlock's pacing was starting to give him a headache. "I can't remember exactly what she said - just the time and place -"

"Which was what? Come on, John, _think_, this could be important!" Sherlock waved his hands in agitation. "There must have been something about it, something _unusual_, that led you to go and investigate it, and not just a disguised voice. Something made you curious, now what was it?"

"Well, it was an unusual time, wasn't it? Eleven-fifteen? Bit late to be meeting at a park." John pressed both hands over his eyes, trying to remember. "Eleven-fifteen...Finsbury Gate..." As he began to calm down, it was starting to come back to him. He looked up suddenly.

"Yes - there was something else. _You will have ninety seconds to..._erm, what was it..._to make yourself known._" He nodded. "I think that was it. Still, not very helpful."

Sherlock halted his pacing for a moment, frowning. "No, no, it's not, is it?" he muttered. "Only confirms that they don't trust each other... but one side has the advantage."

John frowned at him. "How do you figure - "

"Oh, use your _brain._That wasn't a suggestion she was offering, it was a threat, and you don't make threats unless you're trying to bluff - or you can actually back it up. And judging by the gunshots, it wasn't a bluff."

"No, _that_ was definitely not a bluff," John agreed, wincing slightly. "But seriously, Sherlock, you can't possibly expect to untangle every bloody intrigue in London. You're good, but I don't think anyone's _that _good. Sorry if I'm shattering any illusions here."

Pivoting to face John, Sherlock fixed the other man with a piercing look. "Are you questioning my ability to figure out exactly what's going on here?" he demanded.

Sighing, John flicked his eyes up to the ceiling for a moment before looking back to Sherlock. "Yes," he said simply, "yes, I am, and don't" - he sat up straighter, raising his voice - "don't take that as a challenge. It's not. We don't have enough information, and besides, it's none of our business."

Sherlock bit his lip, looking thoughtful. "Good, I'm glad we're in agreement." Then he let out a frustrated sigh. "The bottom line is that we simply don't have enough to go on. I _hate _when this happens."

"Well, I'm not too keen on getting shot at, when it comes down to it," John said, sinking back into his chair. "Is there any chance at all you can just - leave this alone?"

"I haven't got much choice, have I?" Sherlock retorted, sounding miffed. "As I said before, they'll have cleared out by now, and very carefully. And I doubt you'll have the fortune to walk in on another interrupted telephone message." He whirled away again, muttering to himself.

"So the very fact that you can't do anything about it is probably going to make you impossible to live with for the next week," John pointed out, only realising it this moment himself. "That's going to be fun."

"Probably, yes," Sherlock immediately agreed. "But you've only got yourself to blame, John." He strode across the room and threw himself unceremoniously onto the sofa. "God, I'm bored. Wish Lestrade would text me with a case."

John raised his eyebrows slightly. "I assume you've told him about your miraculous reappearance by now, then?" he asked, trying to imagine what the reaction might have been. "How did he take it?"

"If by told him, you mean texted him, then yes," murmured Sherlock, now staring blankly at the ceiling. "Otherwise, no. I hope you weren't expecting me to show up in person."

"Erm, what exactly did you text him?" John asked, with a sense of foreboding. Sherlock's notions of social etiquette were odd if not nonexistent, and if it was anything close to the text he had sent John... Lestrade was probably quite confused about now.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but pulled his phone from his pocket and located the text in question. "_Sorry, been out of touch,"_ he began reading in a bored voice._ "How is last month's murder case coming along? I hope you've realised by now that the boyfriend couldn't have killed her, as he was obviously busy cheating on her at the time. Try the mother's bureau." _He dropped the device onto the table. "And now you're going to tell me that what I said is highly inappropriate and that next time I ought to show a little tact, am I right?"

John nodded, as though it were obvious. "Totally inappropriate," he agreed. "Completely tactless. Rude, presumptuous, and confusing. And - God, I wish I could have seen his face when he got it." He broke into a grin.

Sherlock's brief look of surprise was followed by a similar grin, and he chuckled. "He never replied, you know," he remarked after a moment. "Do you suppose he died of shock?"

"Lestrade?" John shook his head, laughing quietly. "No, but I'll bet he shouted a lot. He's probably waiting to see what you do next - always assuming that he believes you really are you."

"It may not even be a matter of belief," Sherlock mused. "He may just be resigned -" He trailed off then, his smile fading. "No... that's the entire problem, isn't?"

Blinking, John looked over to him. "Sorry - what's the problem?"

Sherlock leaned back, staring up at the ceiling again with a strange expression. "He still believes...what Moriarty said," he whispered. "We have no reason to suspect otherwise..." And surprisingly enough, that fact touched a nerve.

John swore quietly under his breath. "And the papers didn't help things," he muttered, looking worried now. "What're you going to tell him, then?"

"Don't know," was the unusually dull response. "I'll have to think on it." And it was the unfortunate truth - he'd have to come up with something to tell Lestrade, because although Sherlock would have rather asked Molly Hooper for a date than admitted it, he needed Lestrade, if only to provide some legitimacy to what he did.

"Right." John shifted in his chair, leaning forward. "Do you, erm, want me to come with you when you go? Whenever that is?" It was the sort of offer he wasn't sure Sherlock would accept; this was different than having someone to bounce ideas off of. It was verging on personal, actually.

Sherlock hesitated for a few moments, then absently shook his head. "No... better if I go on my own." He did not elaborate, frankly because he wasn't sure how the inevitable encounter would go. It would be better if he didn't have a wild card like John being played.

Tossing away a vague feeling of disappointment, John tilted his head. "You sure?" he inquired, knowing he was pressing his luck. He met his friend's gaze, hoping Sherlock could see that he was actually concerned.

Sherlock inhaled slowly before glancing over at his friend. "Quite sure," he said briskly. "Thank you for the offer, but no." He looked away again with an expression that said very clearly that he didn't want to discuss the matter any further.

"You're - actually worried about this, aren't you?" John couldn't keep the slight note of surprise out of his voice; it was just so unusual for Sherlock to care what anyone else thought of him.

"Worried? Of course I'm not worried." Sherlock pressed his fingers together, frowning to himself but speaking aloud. "Why should I be worried?"

John looked deliberately up at the ceiling. "Yes, you are," he said shortly. He paused, then took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Because that's the part that really got to you before, isn't it? It was just another case until you realised that Moriarty was going after you the entire time." He looked firmly toward his friend. "You - can't stand the idea that people think you're less than all Sherlock Holmes was cracked up to be. Especially if it's someone like Lestrade - because you do care what he thinks. Sometimes."

Sherlock turned his head slowly and directed a searching look at John. "So what you're saying is that I have a massive ego and fall all to pieces if anyone so much as scratches it. Is that it?"

With an exasperated sigh, John looked back up at the ceiling, struggling how best to answer. "Everyone who's met you would say you have a massive ego, Sherlock," he said pointedly. "And your ego is based off of your work, and Moriarty was well on his way to upending your entire career. Is that so much of a stretch, really?"

Sherlock stared testily at his flatmate for a long moment before remarking, "John, you can be a singularly unpleasant person at times. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You're not denying it." John folded his arms and returned the look.

"Your powers of observation never fail to astonish me." Sherlock emitted a sort of "hmph" noise and pointedly turned away.

"Look," John began sharply, leaning forward again, "why is it so hard to admit that? It makes _sense_." He was worried; Sherlock had mentioned Moriarty very little over the past few days, and John was beginning to wonder if there was something else he was missing, though he couldn't think what.

"All right, it makes sense," Sherlock retorted loudly, obviously annoyed. "I don't know why you feel the need to drag a confession out of me."

"Because before you'll let me try to help you have to actually admit you _need_it," John responded quickly, forcefully. "How are you planning to convince Lestrade on your own that everything Moriarty put out there isn't true?"

"Well, I don't _know,_" said Sherlock, with slow sarcasm. "Maybe the fact that I'm not actually _dead _might be a good starting point, don't you think?" He didn't need this - didn't need John trying to help with something this delicate, or prying into his personal feelings about the matter.

"No, that only proves you're clever enough to disappear when your reputation's at stake - at least that's what it's going to _look _like, Sherlock," John went on quickly, not wanting to give his friend time to cut in. "I didn't believe you then and I don't now, but everyone else, they've had six months to just - doubt - everything about you." He let out a low sigh, his expression sympathetic.

"And you think they're more likely to believe the best friend of Sherlock Holmes, the man who wrote 'I'll always believe in him' on his ever-popular blog?" returned Sherlock, his voice tense and low.

"How did you -" John snapped his mouth shut before he could sound that stupid. "Alright, so what? Are you honestly angry at me for writing that?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Just tell me this, then - why would _ anything_ you might say to Lestrade be more credible than what I would tell him? How can you _possibly _help explain this?"

"Because I saw what everyone else saw!" John clenched his teeth, fighting the recollection. "Because only you were up there, but I still know at least part of both sides - that makes sense, doesn't it? Yes, it does." He shook his head. "Because no matter what happened up there, no one else saw it, and you need someone who - who's still in the dark - but - is willing to back you up - "

"No, John, no!" Sherlock was suddenly on his feet, his voice loud. "Don't you understand? Nothing you say will change their minds! Your credibility is _tainted_ by association - all the public will see is a man who doesn't want to believe the truth about his best friend, who's _stupidly _loyal to the fallen Sherlock Holmes. If you try to support me, if you try to explain what happened, all you'll get in return is ridicule. No one will believe a word you say."

Sherlock's gaze was fixed on John, and he was breathing as hard as John had been when the other man had fled the gunfire only hours ago. It was as though a mask had slipped from his normally passive features, to expose the raw emotion beneath.

"And are you worried about that for my own sake," John snapped, "or just because it will make your story that much less believable? Wait, no, I don't really have to guess, do I?" He was still seated, but he could sense that feeling of helplessness surging up again.

Sherlock moved forward swiftly and seized his friend by the shoulders, his eyes boring down into John's own. "You - are not - my lackey," he gritted out, his hands shaking a little. "You're my _friend_, John Watson, and you are not going to risk your reputation to save mine. That risk belongs to me alone, do you understand?"

John flinched back, but found that he couldn't move very far with Sherlock's hands clenched on his shoulders like that, so hard he wouldn't be surprised if had a bit of bruising later on. "OK - OK, I get it!" he stammered, wincing. What else was he supposed to say? "Can you - please - let go now?"

A moment passed, and then Sherlock obediently released his friend and stepped back, letting out a long, slow breath. He stared down at John as though not quite sure the other man was really there. "Sorry," he muttered. "Got carried away." He pivoted and stalked over to the window, gazing broodingly out at the darkened streets.

John watched him for a long while without saying anything. His shoulders ached now, but he was much more concerned about Sherlock; it was so rare for the man to lose his temper like that. He was probably regretting it, too, considering how quickly he had fallen to brooding again.

"So - you do care," John said quietly, regarding him from across the room. "A lot. That's - that's good, that's fine..." He trailed off, not knowing exactly what he was trying to say. "You, erm... don't have to apologise, really. Understandable." He gave a sort of half-nod, more to himself than to Sherlock. "I just... wanted to help. That's all."

"You can't help." Sherlock's voice had gone cold again. He seemed to realise it, too, because he looked round at John with a slightly softened expression than what his tone had implied. There was so much he wanted to say, and yet most of him refused to unwind and actually let it out. His lips parted, but no words issued from them. He stared at his flatmate for a long moment.

"I'm going to bed," he muttered. He moved quickly past John to the door, then paused, looking again as though he wanted to say something important.

"I'll see you in the morning, then. Sleep well." Sherlock gave a curt nod and disappeared; the door to his bedroom snapped shut behind him a moment later.

"Hang on - Sherlock -"

Feeling confused, John continued to look toward the hall long after it had fallen silent, though he didn't expect Sherlock's door to open again. Something was nagging at him still, like part of him knew there was something Sherlock was not telling him, but unless his friend decided to say it, there was no chance he would ever find out what 'it' was.

John sighed, his brow furrowed in thought, but eventually he got up and made his way upstairs. The feeling of bemusement followed him, even into his sleep, but when he woke up the next morning, he could not remember anything of his dreams. Perhaps that was not such a bad thing.

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Don't forget to leave your thoughts and comments! May the Force be with you.


	7. Chapter 6: Once Upon A Time

_And the fun begins..._

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**Chapter Six: Once Upon A Time**

_Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain._

Sherlock woke early the next morning after what felt like only a few hours of restless sleep. Fully alert as soon as he opened his eyes, he lay in bed for long minutes, his brain already at work. John's observations of the night before had not been nearly as wide of the mark as he would have liked, and it made for frustrating thinking.

Unable to reconcile such restless mental energy with staying still, he finally got up, pulled on his dressing gown, and headed into the living room. John was not yet there, though the sound of movement could be heard faintly from the upstairs bedroom. Choosing to ignore this, Sherlock moved into the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea, an automatic reflex which thankfully required no thought, as his mind was otherwise occupied.

John was fully dressed when he emerged from upstairs and came into the kitchen. For a while, he said absolutely nothing as he reached for a mug from one of the cabinets and set it next to the stove. He shot a glance at Sherlock every once in a while, but couldn't be sure if the man noticed or not.

"So." He said it shortly, without looking up. "Are you - feeling better, then?"

Sherlock gave him only the most fleeting of looks before replying. "Fine," he said mildly, his expression bland and unreadable. He took his tea over to his desk, sat down, and began fiddling with his laptop in between sips.

"Right. Good." John poured his own cup and started to rifle through the mass of papers that inevitably covered the small kitchen table. "I'm going out in a bit."

"Mm," was the most Sherlock felt like saying in acknowledgement of John's plans, though inwardly he was somewhat relieved. He needed time on his own to consider his next course of action, without the distraction of his flatmate offering to help every ten minutes or so.

John allowed himself a bit of an eyeroll when he was fairly certain his friend couldn't see, for it looked like Sherlock was bound and determined to be difficult today. "You got any plans, then - for today?" He glanced up over the rim of his mug, and could vaguely see Sherlock through the tendrils of steam rising from the tea.

"No," came the slow reply, sounding as though Sherlock was reluctant to speak at all. He let out a long breath, mentally encouraging John to finish his tea and leave before the lack of conversation got any more strained.

Well that certainly got them somewhere. John gulped down the rest of his tea and laid the papers flat on the table again. "Right, well, I don't want to see the ceiling shot up when I get back, OK? And - please - nothing new in the fridge for a while."

"I'll try to restrain my creativity," Sherlock replied with a laudable if forced attempt at politeness. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, watching John, waiting for him to grab his coat and leave.

John sighed. He knew that look; it was the "get-the-hell-out-because-you're-distracting-me" face, and Sherlock would keep responding in terse, falsely polite phrases until he left. In other words, there was no point in hanging around. John banged his mug down on the counter, pulled on his coat, and headed for the door. At the last moment, he turned and looked back.

"I'll, erm - see you later, then."

"I expect so, yes." Sherlock's tone indicated that in his mind, John may as well have already left; but his eyes followed the other's back as his friend headed out, leaving the door half open behind him.

Sherlock breathed out a low sigh as soon as he was certain John hadn't forgotten anything and would come tramping back in. He couldn't deny that it pleased him to have his friend back in his life after six months, but at the same time, each had a particular knack for getting on the other's nerves on a rather frequent basis. Thank God that John still went out and attempted to cultivate a social life - it left Sherlock to his own devices back in the flat, a situation which suited him perfectly.

He rose from the computer at which he had been doing just about nothing and walked over to a pile of boxes in the corner - things John had brought back to 221B but hadn't got around to unpacking. Sherlock nudged aside the angles and corners until he found the curves of his violin case. He gently lifted the instrument from its resting place, took up the bow in his other hand, and immediately began to play. Sometimes he would just stand by the window, but now his brain was still overly active; so instead he paced the room as the easy notes floated through the air around him.

* * *

Footsteps - soft, subtle, easily quiet - slipped up the stairs of the building. They paused for a moment, almost in mid-stride, when the sounds of the violin drifted out from the flat. Seconds turned into nearly a minute, but still there was no more movement, nor indeed any sound of breath.

Then - slowly resuming, pacing up toward the landing, quiet as the paws of a cat despite well-cut, shining shoes and the hard surface of the stairs. There was the door. One hand eased it open a bit further, but softly, ever so slowly, so that it was barely noticeable.

And then he stood there, arms folded loosely over his tailored jacket, feet set apart in a stance that was firm, yet oddly casual, as though he had walked in late to a recital and didn't want to disturb the artist at work. A smile, tinged ever so slightly with mockery, touched the corners of his lips, and with amused eyes he followed Sherlock's movement for a long while.

"I hate to admit it, Sherlock," said Moriarty in his soft, drawling voice, "but you are rather good."

The music stopped abruptly, as did the sound of Sherlock's footsteps pacing the room. His back was to the door, but he didn't need the tingling on the back of his neck to know that someone was standing there, watching him. No... the voice had done that for him.

He didn't dare look round; he couldn't. His eyes widened slightly as his brain tried to catch up to his senses, and his memory scanned those few spoken words over and over, trying to understand, to re-evaluate them. Inevitably, however, at the end of every pulse of analysis, he came to the same conclusion.

The same _impossible _conclusion.

Sherlock lowered violin and bow in one slow movement, his entire being tensed, like an animal which senses it is being stalked. For once, he didn't want to turn and face the danger. So he simply stood there, the only sound being the echo of his slightly quickened breathing.

Moriarty raised one eyebrow and took a few easy steps into the room. "What, you're not even going to look at me?" he asked, sounding disappointed. "Oh, I know you don't _want _to, obviously, but it's not like you to run from reality, Sherlock." His tone was patronising now, as though he were a teacher who couldn't believe one of his best students had made such a mistake.

Mentally, Sherlock was shaking himself violently in denial, but the physical reality of the situation was far more difficult to ignore. His brain was struggling to figure out how this was possible, while his inner pride had also kicked in and was reminding him to stay calm. He could not show confusion, let alone fear, in front of this man.

He drew in a long, slow breath, and turned.

Sherlock felt his features twitch slightly as his eyes confirmed what his mind did not want to believe. Moriarty, here, alive and condescending as ever, when by all accounts he was legally dead. Sherlock couldn't stop the question falling from his lips in a harsh whisper.

"How?"

Smiling, Moriarty shook his head. "No, no, Sherlock," he said quietly, "I thought you prided yourself on asking the _right_ questions. _How_... well, that's not quite it."

He walked forward a step or two, glancing in a deceptively casual manner about the flat before flicking his eyes back to Sherlock's. "_How_... is for me to know, and you to - not know."

Sherlock's face twisted a bit at Moriarty's words. He bent slightly, depositing his instrument onto a chair beside him. One hand twitched almost imperceptibly towards the pocket of his dressing gown, and when he straightened, he seemed slightly more composed. It was partially an act, of course - one he hoped would be able to fool the other man. But there was no way to be sure.

"No tea this time, I'm afraid," he said then, his tone as neutral as he could make it. "Let me try this question, then - what are you doing here, besides showing off?" The last two words came out in a soft hiss.

"Why am I here..." Moriarty's tone was musing as he paced a half-circle around Sherlock. "I'm sure you can figure it out if you take a moment." He suddenly caught Sherlock's gaze, holding it through the intensity of his own, and his next words were low, almost whispered. "There's still a game out there, Sherlock, and it needs two players. You and I both know how monotonous things get with just the one of us."

He paused, looking thoughtful, then jerked his head toward the window. "Aren't you glad I waited until dear John had left? I know how he _loves _your little surprises, and this will be a good one, don't you think? Bring back two dead men instead of one."

Sherlock lifted his head, turning it to keep his eyes on Moriarty as the other moved around him, like a stalking cat; he drew in his breath sharply at the the man's mention of John. "That game is ended," he said after a moment, rather more loudly than he had intended. "Find yourself another _distraction_, Moriarty - I'm sure you'll be able to come up with something if you _think _hard enough."

"Ended?"

Moriarty stopped short, looking hard at Sherlock as though unsure he had heard correctly. "The game doesn't end until someone wins. We both came very, very close," he added fairly, with a slight tilt of his head, "but we're also both still alive, and that makes it a _draw_." He was smiling again, knowingly.

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "I have no further interest in playing with you," he said harshly. "I'm not going to _dance_ to your tune again. The games ends when someone wins - _or _when both parties acknowledge a stalemate. You have just acknowledged it, and now I do as well. So go and find a new game to play!"

Looking hurt, Moriarty pressed a hand to his forehead. "No, Sherlock, no, you've got it all wrong -" He looked up again, and his expression was bizarrely sympathetic. "My talking to you, my very presence here" - he threw his hands out, turning slowly on the spot - "means that the game goes on. Oh, I suppose you can try to ignore it, but in the end, it will be so _easy _to get you involved again. Almost... like taking candy from a child."

Something in Sherlock's eyes tightened at Moriarty's callous reference to their previous encounters. "No," he said, as calmly as he could, staring down at the other's wide-eyed face. "I've got it exactly right. This game of yours requires two players, yes? But if I refuse to participate, then there can be no game_._"

It was perfectly sound logic, but logic, unfortunately, didn't always work with Moriarty, and Sherlock knew that the other man could easily upset the delicate balance of power which he was trying so desperately to maintain.

"Oh, but you won't be able to refuse," Moriarty returned softly, looking annoyingly sure of himself. "What do you live for, Sherlock, if not the game? All I have to do is make the right move, with the right piece, and you'll be right back where you were before - though," he added almost as an afterthought, "perhaps a bit wiser about things, I would hope."

"No," Sherlock said again, this time more forcefully. "You already heard my answer. I _can_live without all of your puzzles, and you'll have to learn to deal with my absence. After all, you've had six months of practice."

He continued to hold the other man's gaze, but inwardly he felt a twinge of unease. _The right move, with the right piece..._It sounded ominously as though Moriarty had already begun to set another scheme in motion. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the door, then over to the window, and his mind reached out to John. His only friend, alone out in the streets, probably surrounded by half a dozen of Moriarty's lackeys without even realising it...

Moriarty let out a soft, slightly surprised laugh, following the other man's glance. "Oh, don't worry, I haven't gone after him - not yet, anyway." He stretched his neck absently, though his gaze remained on Sherlock. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I've become careless, Sherlock, just because you're still around to make things _so_entertaining." He began pacing again, circling, and then went on.

"I won't deny I was surprised - yes, surprised, but quite pleased. For quite a few months I was convinced you'd found a new home ten feet underground. I _almost_ cried." His mouth turned up suddenly. "But now you're here again, and the fun begins _all _over."

Sherlock found himself turning slowly on the spot, keeping Moriarty square within his frontal vision. He didn't at all care for the feeling of vulnerability now grasping at him, the fact that he had been taken completely by surprise. With no time to prepare for this meeting, his instinct was to put up walls while his mind worked to pull itself together. But at the same time, just the sight of Moriarty here, now, and with the upper hand, was enough to make Sherlock want to go on the offensive. _Anything _to shake that smug smile.

"That's all you want, isn't it?" he said, his voice quick and low as he tried to find a chink in the other man's defences. "The fun, the thrill of the game is all that matters to you. We both nearly lost, and still you don't think anything has changed. But that's _your_ mistake, James Moriarty. Because things _have_ changed. I know you better now, and I _have _learned. You can't trick me into playing with you this time."

His words seemed to be part truth, part bluff. He had indeed learned from his last encounter with Moriarty, far more, perhaps, than the other man expected. But at the same time Sherlock knew that there was still that same weak point in his own armour as before, and it wouldn't take much for Moriarty to exploit that.

"Please, Sherlock, let's not be formal here - it's Jim, remember? _Jim _Moriarty." He was still pacing, with that faintly amused look on his features. "At any rate..." He shrugged. "I'm not going to try to trick you. I won't need to. You will look me square in the face, and you will play, because I know how to strip away _all _your other options one...by...one."

Sherlock forced himself to continue to stare down into the eyes of that strangely emotional face. "But you only have two options, don't you, _Jim_?" he replied softly. "To play the game, or to die trying. And I'll say this now -" His eyes suddenly seemed dark and hooded as he finished: "I _dearly _hope it's the second one."

Looking puzzled, Moriarty frowned back at him, and then the expression abruptly cleared again. "You know," he said slowly, "I hope you're right. But you know what else?"

He took a step forward, leaned in toward Sherlock, and whispered, "By then, you'll just be a name - another name on the grand trophy of players who couldn't quite make it to the final round."

Sherlock turned his head, glaring into the other man's cold eyes, only inches away from his own. He found that his hands were trembling slightly. "There will _be _no final round," he gritted out, his lips forming each word heavily and distinctly, emphasising his point.

Moriarty smiled his cat-like smile. "Only the people who get to it know, Sherlock," he whispered. "I'm willing to believe you might be that clever, but I don't think you're that lucky - which _is _rather a pity, since we're having so much fun."

There was a long pause. "Are you trying to scare me?" breathed Sherlock finally, his eyes narrowed in calculation.

"Maybe. Why, is it working?"

"_No._" He continued to hold Moriarty's gaze.

A shrug then. "Oh, well, not to worry. I'll have to let you do it yourself, then." Moriarty leaned in closer, as though about to divulge some dark secret. His voice was very soft. "You'll start it, Sherlock, and I'll continue it... and you'll finish it."

Sherlock lifted his chin slightly, as though in reaction to a challenge. The expression on his face was almost disdainful. "You think I'm going to scare _myself?_"

The look that Moriarty flashed back to him aroused the direst of forebodings. "That's right - although," he added thoughtfully, "you may have some help with that. We'll see how things work out."

"I'll probably need it. Scaring myself isn't something I've had a lot of time to practice."

"Not to worry," Moriarty said, stepping back again, "I have every confidence in you. Not that you should jump to conclusions now, Sherlock," he went on warningly, and his voice dripped condescension. "There _will _be things to come, but I'm not telling you where or when." He had begun backing toward the door - slowly and casually, in a manner that was much more a graceful exit than a retreat.

Sherlock watched him calculatingly, his eyes narrowed. "I could say I look forward to them, but we both know I'd be lying," he said softly.

It was costing him immense effort to keep up his appearance of calm rationale - he wasn't entirely certain he had fully recovered from the shock of seeing Moriarty alive in the first place. As the other man got closer to the door, Sherlock's restraint snapped slightly; he moved forward and grabbed Moriarty by the front of his elegantly tailored jacket, both hands clenched tightly around the fabric.

"Do give me a warning next time you decide to kill yourself," he breathed. "Then I'll be able to ensure that the state is _permanent._"

For a second, Moriarty seemed to actually be surprised; he cringed, flinging his hands up between himself and Sherlock as though being physically hurt. But then all tension vanished, and his hands came down again, to reveal features wide with amusement. He let out a sharp breath of a laugh, allowing the other man to hold him there with no visible consternation.

"Is that all?" he asked mildly, widening his eyes in theatrical shock. "If you're going to make a threat, at least convince me you're capable of it, Sherlock." His tone was expectant.

Sherlock glared at him for a long moment, his eyes burning. Then abruptly he released him, shoving the other man backward towards the door.

"You _know _I'm capable of it, Moriarty," he whispered. "Consider that a friendly warning - rather like the one you once gave me."

And despite his confusion, his anger, his barely concealed fear of what Moriarty could and might do just to keep him playing the game - Sherlock at that moment meant every deadly word.

A pleased expression spread across Moriarty's face. "Good..._very _good," he murmured, as though half to himself. "I think I can live with that answer - at least for now. It's good to know death hasn't made you apathetic." He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, his eyes relaxed and challenging. Then, very deliberately, he turned on his heel and left. The echoes of his footsteps slowly faded down the stairs.

Sherlock watched the other leave, his jaw clenched, and long after he knew Moriarty had disappeared from the vicinity he remained standing where he was, still with his eyes trained hard on the doorway. He wasn't sure he had completely processed the change in his current situation - or rather, the regression back to a former one. This encounter had been the last thing he had been expecting, and he didn't like the feeling of unease which Moriarty had left him to wrestle with.

Digging out his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, Sherlock began thumbing a text to John, but then quite suddenly stopped in the middle of a word. His instinct had been to contact his friend and make sure that the other was alright. But the question was - should he even tell John about this? His flatmate was already shaken from being shot at, and by Sherlock's own unanticipated return from apparent death. The visit and subtle threat of the person whom John considered to be Sherlock's nemesis might just push the poor man over the edge.

Trying to give himself some time to think, Sherlock instead sent a different text - this one to Mycroft.

_Does John know that you and Lestrade never recovered Moriarty's body?_  
_SH_

It wasn't long before a reply came back - and it was, typically, terse and to the point.

_Come discuss in person._  
_M_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother's reply, then typed back an irate response.

_Just answer the question. I'm sure it won't be a MAJOR breach of state security._  
_SH_

_In person._  
_M_

Sherlock stared hard at his phone for several long moments, then snapped it shut. Without bothering to change into "proper" attire, he pulled on his coat and scarf and quickly left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Much as he disliked seeing his brother in person, Sherlock _really_ wanted some answers. Just this once, he would deign to answer Mycroft's call.

* * *

Please do keep those reviews coming! Remember, share and enjoy! May the Force be with you.


	8. Chapter 7: Pointed Meetings

_More conversational interludes! Fleshing out the little things is fun._

_Thank you from both Setep and Kaelir to those who have alerted, favourited, and most importantly, reviewed the story so far!_

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Pointed Meetings**

_DNA tests are only as accurate as the records you keep._

Sherlock's face was distinctly cold as he was escorted into a sumptuously furnished room by two equally sumptuously dressed men. Their expensive suits didn't hide the fact that one had gone to bed rather tipsily the night before, and the other was liable to have a nervous breakdown within the week. Sherlock fixed them both with looks of subtle contempt before turning his attention to the third man before him.

"New style of furniture in vogue, then?" he asked, glancing around the room. "Or did you just get bored with the old look?"

Mycroft was leaning back in his chair, clearly waiting. He dismissed Sherlock's escort with an absent wave of his hand. "Kindly keep your comments on my furnishings to a minimum, Sherlock," he said, sounding slightly exasperated. He leaned forward, folding his hands on the polished surface of his desk, but otherwise did not move. A casual glance at the hem of Sherlock's dressing gown made one of his eyebrows go up, but all he said was, "You're not really interested, after all."

Sherlock smiled briefly - a chilly smile. "No," he agreed, "not really. But we have so little in common that I have to stretch things a bit to make conversation." He walked forward slowly, his stance deceptively relaxed. "So - are you going to answer my question, now that I've come all this way to see you?"

"Of course." Mycroft tapped the tips of his fingers together, peering over them at his brother. "As far as I'm aware, he hasn't any idea. Unless you told him, of course, but then you wouldn't be here. Was he asking about it, then?"

Sherlock suddenly dropped his facade of politeness, slamming a hand down on his brother's desk and ignoring the other's query. "Don't try to pull a bluff on me, Mycroft," he said angrily. "You know that if you had arranged things properly I wouldn't be aware of this little fact either, because you never mentioned the subject to me - conveniently, I might add."

"Convenience is relative," Mycroft murmured, more or less ignoring the implied question. He let his chin settle onto his now-folded hands. "Am I to understand that you and John are getting along famously once again?"

"What do you care?" demanded Sherlock, a note of suspicion in his voice.

"I would say that I'm concerned, but, as always, you'll refuse to believe me no matter how many times I decide to mention it." Mycroft paused, then went on in a more moderated tone, "It can't have been that smooth, Sherlock, not if I know John Watson, and I flatter myself that I do in this case."

Sherlock felt his upper lip twitch slightly. He stared hard at his brother for a moment, distracted from his real reason for being here by the sudden twist in their conversation. He wondered how much he should admit - how much he should explain about the emotional turmoil that had erupted and just as suddenly been forced back, and how he could feel it there still, waiting for a breach...

His tone was brusque when he finally spoke. "Well then, if you know John so well, you shouldn't really need to ask."

"I'm not asking out of idle _curiosity_, Sherlock. This is important."

"Everything is _fine_ between John and myself, thank you _very much_, Mycroft." But there was tension in the words.

"You're lying."

The words were flat and unsympathetic this time. Mycroft leaned back in his chair again, eyeing his brother with an expression that was altogether too knowing and which somehow managed to convey a tone of delicate distaste.

A short, angry breath dropped from Sherlock's lips. "It's none of your concern!"

"You made it my concern when you asked for my help," Mycroft said sharply. "I gave it, perhaps unwillingly, and you took it, and don't think, Sherlock, that you hid any more effectively from me than you did from yourself."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Sherlock glared down at the other man through narrowed eyes. How had Mycroft managed to get him off track to easily?

Mycroft let out a barely audible sigh, perhaps of resignation. "You need him, Sherlock," he answered quietly. "And what's more, you owe him the truth. _All _of it. I suggest you give it to him, if you haven't done so already."

"Truth."

A mirthless smile twisted Sherlock's lips. "If it's truth you want," he said dangerously, "then why don't we start by going back to why I came here in the first place?"

"If you insist." Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, his features maintaining more than a hint of annoyance. "I already gave an answer to your question, however."

"You gave me an answer to _one_ question. I'm sure you've realised by now that it wasn't my _only _question."

"And the next one is...?"

"I want an explanation," hissed Sherlock, "for your decision to keep certain facts from me regarding the body of James Moriarty - or _lack thereof._"

Mycroft's brows drew low in a sudden frown. "This is a strange time to be bringing this up all of a sudden," he said quietly, fixing Sherlock with a piercing look. "What are you worried about?"

"Moriarty is _alive_, you jackass!" Sherlock exploded suddenly. "Or did the idiots you sent along with Lestrade to investigate think he had some fond lackeys who smuggled his body away?" He glared down at his too-calm brother, mastering the impulse to punch the man and see what happened.

"What do you mean, he's alive?" Mycroft stood up very quickly, but his face remained strangely unreadable. "If you recall, Sherlock, it was you who told us he'd killed himself on the hospital roof."

With difficulty, Sherlock managed to take a calming breath and drop his voice to a more reasonable level. "He created every appearance of doing just that," he said, obviously finding it difficult to admit that Moriarty had faked his suicide just as well as he himself had.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "What makes you so sure that Moriarty isn't dead after all?"

Sherlock's face was unreadable. He didn't answer, but pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, then held it out. "Play it," he said tersely, deliberately avoiding his brother's gaze.

Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft reached for the phone and then glanced down at the screen. "What's this?" he asked pointedly.

Sherlock looked over to glare again at the other man. "Just play it!" he snarled. He snapped his face away once more, waiting.

Mycroft gave Sherlock another pointed glance before pressing the small 'play' button, then he leaned back in his chair again and watched the phone expectantly.

_"No tea this time, I'm afraid. Let me try this question, then - what are you doing here, besides showing off?"_

_"Why am I here... I'm sure you can figure it out if you take a moment.. There's still a game out there, Sherlock, and it needs two players. You and I both know how monotonous things get with just the one of us."_

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let out his breath slowly as he listened to the fragment of conversation that he had managed to record. Just reliving it made him want to hit something again.

_"Aren't you glad I waited until dear John had left? I know how he loves your little surprises, and this will be a good one, don't you think? Bring back two dead men instead of one."_

_"That game is ended. Find yourself another _distraction_, Moriarty - I'm sure you'll be able to come up with something if you _think_ hard enough."_

_"Ended? The game doesn't end until someone wins. We both came very, very close, but we're also both still alive, and that makes it a draw."_

There was a pause, then the recording ended, leaving behind an extremely tense silence.

"Are you convinced?" Sherlock asked finally, in tones of forced calm.

Mycroft looked visibly shaken. "Good God," he murmured, staring at the mobile in his hand. A moment later he looked up sharply at Sherlock. "When was this?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch, still refusing to make eye contact. "About two hours ago," he replied. He lifted his steepled fingers to his lips, but did not say anything more.

For a long moment, Mycroft was silent, too. Tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk, he appeared to be deep in thought, and it was only after letting out a soft sigh that he looked up again. "What do you want me to do?" he asked simply.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I want you to tell me," he said slowly, turning finally to regard his brother, "why you found it necessary to conceal that tiny yet crucial piece of information!" His words were deliberate, but the tone in which he uttered them was threatening to rise angrily again.

"When you lose track of a known criminal," Mycroft said slowly, his lips thinning, "you don't jump to tell the public about it. We did trust that you knew what you were talking about when you said he shot himself."

"I'm not the public!" Sherlock spat out. "I'm the one he's after, Mycroft, and the _least _you can do is tell me when something like this happens!" His breathing had quickened again as it had when he had been faced with Moriarty.

"Calm down," Mycroft said sharply, raising his voice. "The last thing I wanted was for _you_ to be galloping around the country trying to trace a body that had no bearing" - he broke off, then reluctantly corrected himself - "that _shouldn't _have had any further bearing on what happened."

"Oh, of _course,_" retorted Sherlock, his expression sardonic. "It's much better for national security if the body is discovered to be alive and scheming again. Why didn't I think of that?"

His brother frowned, eyeing him with what could easily be interpreted as dislike at this particular moment. "Don't be snide, Sherlock. None of us anticipated this." He nodded briefly at the recording. "Isn't there any more to that? I'd hardly believe that was your entire conversation with the man."

Sherlock seriously considered ignoring the question, just to annoy Mycroft, but in the end decided to answer. "No," he said, inhaling slowly, "in fact we had a rather lengthy chat - none of which is your concern, brother mine." He lifted his chin slightly, as though daring Mycroft to try and get the rest out of him.

Mycroft let out his breath slowly. "Very well. But as I said, I don't know what you want me to do about it. This was, and apparently still is, your game." His face was inscrutable as he said it.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he glared daggers at his brother. "You and Moriarty might get along well together, Mycroft. Why don't you invite him in for tea sometime? Then again, by the time you got round to serving biscuits, he'd probably have every state secret you own already inside his pocket." With that parting shot, Sherlock turned and stalked away towards the door.

"You're obsessed, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was hard, but there was something else underlying it - a tone of concern. "Don't let it get the better of you. Just... be careful."

But the only reply he received was a loud silence, followed by the even louder bang of the door as Sherlock left the room.

* * *

By the time someone got him in to see Lestrade, John was fairly hopping with impatience. The Inspector must have had an idea why he was there - so why did it take so bloody long?

Going by Lestrade's office had been a last-minute decision, one he still wasn't quite sure about. Sherlock had seemed adamant in wanting John nowhere near when he himself went to confront Lestrade, but then again, he had also admitted he had no clue what he was going to do about it. John figured that as long as Sherlock was in the dark, _he _might as well take a few of the essential first steps.

John cleared his throat deliberately as he came up to Lestrade's desk, feeling rather awkward. He hadn't spoken with the man in a long time; after all, it had always been Sherlock who barged into the office without warning, demanding answers or spouting theories at the top of his voice. When there _was _no Sherlock, interaction had dwindled down to an invitation for drinks perhaps once a month.

Lestrade was leaning back slightly in his chair and giving John a look which plainly said he wasn't exactly _pleased _to see the other man, though of course it was nothing personal and in a social setting he would most likely be much more cordial, and maybe if they both had some time free they could go and get a drink together and have a chat, but this being a more formal occasion...etc.

Out loud, however, all he said was, "I do hope this is important - we're very busy right now." His expression became one of not so patient expectation.

John frowned at that. "Are you saying - you're not -" He tilted his head, wondering why Lestrade seemed so calm, if not downright displeased, to see him. "You, erm, you did get the text, didn't you? Yesterday?"

Lestrade's expression changed once again, and this time it was definitely not a nice face. "The prank text from 'Sherlock Holmes'? Yeah, I got it... and deleted it."

"It's - no, it's not a prank." John ran a hand over his forehead; he had expected this, but it was entirely different thinking about it and hearing it from Lestrade's own mouth. "Look, I know you're not going to believe me, but it's not. He's... alive. Sherlock." The glance he shot Lestrade was slightly pleading.

The Detective Inspector turned his eyes up towards the ceiling. God, he didn't need this, not on top of everything else. Part of him sympathised with John, honestly, but the other part still rankled when it came to the matter of Sherlock Holmes.

"Okay," he said finally, dropping his head to look at John again, "okay. If I'm not going to believe you - then why even bother to come?"

"Because..." John trailed off, floundering. It had seemed like a good idea, but now that he was here, he wasn't sure how to put it all into words. "Because I'm telling you the truth," he said finally, his voice quiet. "And I thought I'd give you warning so you don't have a heart attack when he comes over here himself."

Lestrade leaned forward, massaging his temples. "He already gave me a heart attack when I heard he jumped," he muttered. He didn't know what to think anymore. Wearily, he looked up. "Look, John... I'm too worn out to deal with whatever this is, alright? According to everything they told me, Sherlock's been dead for six months, and now you come over here to tell me he's alive?"

He let out a soft groan. Privately, he felt as though John might be telling the truth, that Sherlock might have somehow, impossibly, survived, if only to spite the police. But then his rational side kicked in, and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, John. I know you miss him. In a way, I do too. I'll say this - if he comes over here, then fine, I'll have to accept that he's still out there causing trouble. But otherwise..." He spread his hands helplessly. He didn't want to push John over the edge by stating that it was impossible - even though it was - so the best he could do was just humour the other man and hope it would suffice.

It wasn't a flat out denial, which was more than John had hoped for, in some ways. He found himself nodding, if reluctantly. "I know it sounds impossible," he admitted, making a face. "I thought so too, until I got a text - he probably thought that was a good way of breaking it to people. He _would _think that."

He fell silent for a long moment, wondering if it was advisable to continue or not. "You think I'm imagining it, don't you? Like it's - finally gone to my head, or something."

Lestrade shrugged. "You wouldn't be the first to let wishful thinking get the better of you. I'm not going to say you're lying, because I don't know. I got used to strange things where Sherlock was concerned. But what he did was just one strange thing too many. So until someone proves it to me otherwise, I have to go with what the evidence tells me." He shook his head again, almost pityingly.

John let out an exasperated breath. "I'm not cracking up," he said firmly. "If Sherlock doesn't show up here, come over to the flat when you've got a chance." Of course, believing Sherlock was alive was only the first step. Then, somehow, they would have to convince Lestrade that everything Moriarty had put forth was a pack of lies, and that would be much, much harder to prove.

Lestrade gestured to the papers and files piles on his desk and around the room. "Does it honestly look like I'll get any amount of free time in the near future? Look, I'm sorry, but I haven't got the time for this right now. I'm up to my ears in reports. I've got a _job _to do."

"Yeah, and how much harder has it gotten for you since you haven't had him around?" John suddenly realised that his voice was not only raised, but verging on angry. He hadn't meant that. "You just said a minute ago that you miss him."

Lestrade sensed the direction in which the conversation was headed, and he held up his hands placatingly. "Okay, okay. I'll be the first to admit that Sherlock did a lot of good for me and my department. He was a nut, but he helped me out, and I think we could even stretch it a bit and say he was my friend. But hell, John -" A note of frustration entered his voice - "I wasn't the one to make the decision to - to do what he did. And people don't come back from decisions like that."

John folded his arms. "He didn't have a choice," he said carefully. Maybe it would have been better to let Sherlock explain this, after all. He could see Lestrade's mental conflict playing across his the other man's face.

Lestrade shook his head. "Of course he had a choice. Jump, or not jump. That's what it comes down to, really." He leaned back, sighing. "Now can we _please _move on from this? It doesn't make for exactly cheerful conversation."

"He did _not_ have a choice," John said loudly. "Moriarty was - no, you know what, never mind. I'll let _him _explain the whole bloody thing." He took a deep breath and let it out again; his righteous anger would not make things any easier for Sherlock, he knew.

Lestrade continued to eye him for a long moment, then he leaned forward and said quietly, "John - I want to believe you, really. As annoying as he was, I'd love to believe that Sherlock's back, alive. But - I can't. It's just...well." He shrugged again, this time apologetically. "It's just too incredible, even for Sherlock. That's the best I can give you. Sorry."

John nodded curtly. "Right. Fine." He looked away for a moment, out at the other offices with their transparent walls. "I guess that's me done here, then, isn't it?" He held out his hand across the desk, polite if insincere about it.

Lestrade sighed, reaching across to take the other's hand. "John..." But he only shook his head again, paused, and said somewhat awkwardly, "Nice of you to drop by."

They shook hands, but only for a moment; John was beginning to feel - unfairly, he knew - rather resentful of Lestrade's hesitation, and now that he had made the effort, there was no point in sticking around any longer. He gave the Inspector a brief, tight nod before turning abruptly and striding out of the office. They would see, in the end - they would _have _to see.

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Cookies have been put out to entice reviewers. May the Force be with you.


	9. Chapter 8: Danger Signals

_The tension mounts... at least I hope it does, since that _was_ rather the point._

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**Chapter Eight: Danger Signals**

_Look at me - I'm afraid, John. Afraid._

John was not surprised to see that Sherlock was still at the flat when he got back. He raised an eyebrow pointedly as he walked in, then simply shook his head. "I see you've gotten a lot done since I left," he remarked, though by now he knew that such comments simply bounced off his friend.

Sherlock was seated at his desk in his usual brooding pose, but the laptop screen in front of him was conspicuously blank. It took him a few moments to realise that John had entered the room, and then he looked up, almost startled.

"What? Oh, yes... right." He spared his friend only the briefest of looks before hunkering down again, his brow furrowed.

John paused in midstride, setting his foot back down. He fixed Sherlock with a puzzled look, glancing from his friend to the laptop and back again. "Have you been sitting like that this whole time?" he asked, and there was a slight note of criticism he couldn't keep out of his voice.

"No," was Sherlock's response, and it was rather slow in coming. He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge what the other's reaction would be if he did indeed reveal what had occurred during John's absence. The prospects his brain came up with were not exactly comforting.

"So, you...got something productive done, then?" John looked around the flat, as though expecting to find some evidence of what Sherlock may or may not have accomplished in his absence.

Sherlock continued to stare blankly over the tips of his own fingers. "Not the word I'd choose, no," he murmured.

"What word would you choose, then?" John walked over until he was standing next to his friend, looking down at him with his arms folded.

"Why do I have to choose a word at all?" Sherlock snapped back, with an unanticipated bite in his voice.

John turned his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. "OK, Sherlock," he said shortly, "what's wrong?"

Sherlock mentally tried to restore his typical emotional neutrality. He closed his eyes before saying quietly, "Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I'm perfectly fine, thank you, John." His mind cast around, trying to find a graceful way to change the topic without being too obvious about it.

"No, you're lying," John responded sharply. "Don't lie, Sherlock - I can tell, you know. I'm not _that _stupid." His face had the stubborn expression - rare, but one only John could have.

Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes finally moving up to hold John's own. "No... no, you're not," he acknowledged softly. He kneaded at his forehead with one hand, pondering. It seemed he wouldn't be able to keep this particular unpleasant secret from John - not this time.

"I've just had it from my dear brother," he began cautiously, "that his people - and Lestrade's - never recovered Moriarty's body from the roof..."

John stiffened. It was not so much the words that did it as the tone, the strange and uncharacteristic reluctance with which Sherlock said it, as though he were - afraid? - to get to the point. John felt his heart-rate speeding up automatically in anticipation.

"Never - wait, no," he stammered, shaking his head and trying to get a grip on the implications. "How did they never recover him - it? He's dead. You told me - "

Sherlock dropped his head, pressing his lips against his steepled fingers. "No, John. He's alive." It took too much effort to get those words out, far more than he had expected. He closed his eyes again, breathing deeply.

No...impossible. For a moment, John could only stare at Sherlock, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. It was a joke, wasn't it? "No - no, Sherlock - no - this is _not _the time to be messing with me about something like this -"

It took all of Sherlock's self-control to stop from leaping up and shaking the other man. He _needed _John to believe this - and partly to convince himself that he wasn't going mad.

"Moriarty - is alive," he said jerkily. He was surprised to find his voice shaking slightly, his tone almost angry. "He... visited the flat...while you were out."

"You're not serious." It was a stupid thing to say, but the words left John's mouth before he could help it. He could tell now, he _knew _Sherlock was serious, but the thought was physically chilling. He had not expected this - and judging by his friend's face, Sherlock hadn't, either.

Something deep down made Sherlock wish he could just quirk a smile and say "Of course I'm not." Oh, how he wished he could say that...

But instead he had no choice but to admit the painful truth.

"I'm perfectly serious, I'm afraid," he whispered. He shook his head, almost numbly. "Apparently I wasn't alone in arranging to fake my own death..."

John turned his face away, pressing one hand to his forehead. His thoughts seemed to have stopped in their tracks. "I can't believe it," he muttered under his breath, barely audible. "After - after all _that_-" He whirled around suddenly as a thought occurred to him - a terrible thought. "This is just going to continue now, isn't it?" He swallowed, fighting the numbness that was spreading through him. "Everything that happened - it's just going to start all over again."

In saying it, he was desperately hoping for a denial, but it was a slim hope. Sherlock would not, _could _not, remain idle if Moriarty was still out there. That much he knew.

Sherlock had made no move to either confirm or deny this, but they both knew it to be the most likely possibility. Moriarty did not make such threats - or boasts, depending on how you looked at it - and then fail to follow through with them.

Still with that uncharacteristic look of helplessness on his face, Sherlock slumped back. Moriarty had played his first hand well - already Sherlock was thinking, and doubting, trying to anticipate the other's next move. The man had already reached past his normally impenetrable defences in threatening those closest to him - Sherlock couldn't then see what would come next. What would Moriarty's crazed mind invent to trump the heights he had previously reached?

In what was likely a hopeless attempt to give his brain time to absorb this new situation, John began pacing in a tight, agitated circle. He didn't know what to think, much less what to say, and the worst bit was Sherlock, who also seemed at a complete loss. That was what was so terrifying about Moriarty - he seemed able to equal Sherlock at what he did, and in a way that was so casual as to seem almost effortless. Worst, it was always unexpected.

John stopped his pacing abruptly and turned back to Sherlock, his expression openly worried. "What happened? When he - what did he say?"

Sherlock exhaled audibly before replying. "He _reminded _me that as long as we're both still alive, he intends for the game to continue," he said, as blandly as possible, and much more calmly than he was capable of feeling right now. "Not really very comforting," he added softly after a moment.

"No," John said, his breath coming a bit quicker, "no, not really. Not at _all._" He looked away again, turning slowly on the spot, then suddenly kicked hard out at the nearby coffee table. "_Damn _it!" Unfortunately, it didn't make him feel much better.

"To put it mildly, yes," agreed Sherlock, a deep frown still etched on his features. He heaved a frustrated sigh. The frightening part was that he understood Moriarty's motivation in continuing this game - he could practically empathise with the other man. Ordinary life did get _so _boring sometimes, after all...

John rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes, wincing as his foot began to throb painfully. "Sherlock," he said in a muffled voice, "if I live through till the end of the week, I think I deserve a medal or something."

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, not at all liking the perhaps unintentional implications of his friend's words. "Let's hope we won't have to test your theory," he whispered, pressing his fingers together again.

John blinked, then realised what that must have sounded like. "I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "But - really - between you, and Lestrade, and that thing at the park, and now Moriarty -" He broke off, shaking his head.

Sherlock lifted his head again, giving John a careful look. "What do you mean, Lestrade?" he asked sharply.

Inwardly, John swore. "You - did you say you'd have to talk to him, at some point," he said lamely, with a sneaking feeling that he wasn't going to get off the hook that easily.

Sherlock continued to stare at him for a long moment, and then let out a barely controlled breath. "He didn't believe you, did he?" he asked rhetorically. His tone was surprisingly flat.

"He, erm..." John's shoulders slumped a bit. "No, he didn't. Pretty sure he thought I'd lost it, actually, only he didn't want to say so."

Sherlock turned his eyes upward, but was unable to keep the cold sarcasm from his voice. "Yes, thank you, John, I'm sure your little chat was a _tremendous _help." What little patience he had left was dangerously close to running out.

John's features tightened visibly. He looked deliberately at anything that wasn't Sherlock, but it was only effective for so long, and he looked back after a moment feeling less than cordial. "And I see you're doing _really_well on your own so far."

"If I recall correctly, you agreed to let _me _deal with Lestrade." Sherlock watched his knuckles whiten as his interlocking fingers clenched around each other.

"Right." John felt a surge of real annoyance now. "I forgot how well you deal with society. I'll leave it to you, then." He turned on his heel and strode from the room without further comment, feeling doubly terrible because he knew he _had_done exactly what Sherlock hadn't wanted him to.

Sherlock watched him go, his features stony, listening as the other man's footsteps thudded upstairs. Why couldn't John _understand_ what was happening here? His friend might be naive enough to believe that he could just talk his way - and thus Sherlock's - into the hearts of people like Lestrade, but Sherlock knew better. People believed what they _wanted_ to believe, not what their friends _told _them to believe.

He waited for several minutes, but John did not return. Sherlock rose from his seat at the desk and walked quietly over to the stairs leading up to his flatmate's room, his anger ebbing away as he stood there. Was John simply so annoyed that he didn't want to deal with his friend, or was it something more than that?

Sherlock hesitated briefly, thinking, with a frown on his features. Then, coming to a decision, he moved softly up the stairs. At the top he paused again, and he strained his hearing for a sound that might indicate what John was up to. To his eventual relief, however, he heard nothing, which meant that John was probably just sulking. It was a much preferable scenario to the last time Sherlock had come up here, the second night after he and John had moved back into the flat; he had pushed open the door of his friend's room to find the other man huddled by the window, shaking with sobs.

Sherlock bit his lip at the recollection. He had known that re-adjusting would be hard on John, but somehow he hadn't expected to find the other man so vulnerable in the face of that difficulty. It had pierced him with surprising discomfort, therefore, to see John like that, apparently unable to cope with losing his best friend and then regaining him again so suddenly. Sherlock could almost still feel the desperate way John had clung to him when he walked over, and in all honesty the consulting detective had found himself nearly scared by it. It had taken quite awhile to calm him down, and even then, Sherlock had suspected that his friend's quieting was only on the surface, for the most part.

He leaned back against the wall of the stairway, his eyes still focused on the closed door of John's room. Whatever uncaring exterior he might present, he was still concerned about the detrimental effect that recent events could have on his flatmate. If John was having so much difficulty coping with just Sherlock's presence, how was he going to deal with the almost simultaneous reappearance of James Moriarty? Sherlock had rarely been forced to witness John being pushed to his breaking point - but he had to admit the possibility that the other man might be dithering very close to it now.

Sherlock turned away from the door and padded quietly back down the stairs. He would just have to hope that John's innate inner strength - something he was always startled by, when it came down to it - would be enough to see him through.

* * *

Three days later, John and Sherlock were more or less back on civil speaking terms - which meant that they avoided talking about Lestrade (who had made no further contact, making John begin to wonder exactly what was going through the DI's mind), but they especially stepped carefully around the subject of Moriarty. John knew that Sherlock was still thinking about the man, but there was really nothing he or anyone else could do about it. You couldn't anticipate Moriarty - well, perhaps Sherlock could have, but since he seemed just as much at a loss, they had essentially reached a stalemate.

_Until one of them makes a move, anyway_, John thought silently, but whether it would be Sherlock or Moriarty in the end, he didn't know. They were men set apart, opponents in a game that was only half-visible at best, and in which the stakes were very, very high.

"I'm going out," John called from the kitchen one afternoon later that week, as he pulled on his jacket. He peered around the doorway into the other room. "Do want me to pick up anything?"

"You could try for the satsumas again," Sherlock replied, though rather absently. He seemed very much preoccupied with his current activity, which consisted of bouncing a small rubber ball off the wall from his position - sprawled on the couch - and seeing how many times he could catch it before it boinged out of his reach.

"And if I forget, I won't hear the end of it, I know." John rolled his eyes, but he wasn't overly concerned; in fact, compared with the beginning of the week, his mood was positively buoyant. "I'll try, but I'm not promising anything."

He walked to the store, but by the time he emerged again (with the satsumas, and Sherlock had better appreciate it, he thought, or he would just toss them in the bin, he really would), it had begun to rain - nothing heavy, but the light drizzle was just as annoying, especially when he had to walk any distance. After a brief glance up at the sky, John stepped up to the curb and hailed a cab.

There were two taxis trundling along the street not far away. The first was empty, but for one reason or another, the driver apparently decided to ignore the wave of a potential passenger and passed by without slowing. The second, however, pulled over to the curb next to John, and someone already seated inside shoved open the door, indicating that John was welcome to share.

John hesitated, but as he glanced up again one very large, very wet raindrop landed directly in his eye, and that seemed to settle it. Pulling his bag behind him, he clambered into the cab, giving a nod and a brief "Thanks" without really looking to see who the other passenger might be.

Strangely, the cab immediately pulled away and began heading off down the street, as though with a purpose. Neither the driver or either of the two other men inside - one, oddly, in the front passenger seat - asked for or gave a destination.

John began to feel a few twinges of unease as his instincts kicked in. "Erm," he said, leaning forward, "I do have someplace to get to -"

Still, there was no verbal response from any of the men. However, the dark-suited individual seated next to John shifted slightly in his seat, and suddenly there was a very impassive-looking handgun pressed against John's left temple.

John felt his heart skip a beat as everything inside him cringed, then tightened; it took all his willpower not to flinch back violently from the gun pressed to his head. He had to keep calm, be steady."What - what the _hell _is going on?" he demanded in a voice he hoped didn't sound as panicked as he felt right now. He had his own gun with him - he always carried it these days - but he dared not make a move for it, not in his present situation.

"Just a little insurance that something we've been working on won't get _messed up _again by someone running in and interfering," was the cold response from the man seated directly in front of John.

His breath coming very shallowly, John let his eyes dart from one man to the other. "Interfering -" He broke off, swearing mentally. Oh, God. Finsbury Gate. He hadn't expected - but no, they had found him. Whoever 'they' were, anyway. _Stupid_, he accused himself furiously. _You're a bloody idiot, John Watson. Well-done._

"Wh - who are you?" he asked quickly, inwardly wondering how long it would be before Sherlock could possibly realise something was wrong. He hadn't said how long he would be, and if Sherlock became absorbed in something, as he so often did... the possibilities were not encouraging.

The man beside him pressed the gun a little more firmly against John's head. "Quiet," he warned, his tone very ominous indeed. "None of your concern."

John had been in this position before, and he knew the point when it was best to obey. Closing his eyes, he let out a shaky breath and then clamped his mouth shut, so hard that his jaw began to ache after a few moments. He didn't need the gun or the man wielding it to tell him this was bad. _Oh, God, Sherlock, figure it out... somehow..._

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Reviews are most welcome and most appreciated! May the Force be with you.


	10. Chapter 9: Triggering A Wound

****_Apologies for the slightly longer wait on this one - real life got in the way for a bit. Next chapter should be up fairly quickly, particularly -cough- if reviews are left. Cheers!_

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**Chapter Nine: Triggering A Wound**

_I can stop John Watson, too - stop his heart._

Sherlock, at that moment, was in fact back in brooding mode, having lost interest in his game with the rubber ball not long after John had left. He was not, however, returning to his attempts to figure out what had been going on regarding John's narrow escape from the unknown gunmen. Past events with no obvious follow-ups were considerably lower on his list of priorities than the possibility of all hell breaking loose, now that Moriarty was confirmed (by Sherlock) to be back on the streets and eager to play.

Sherlock's dark reverie was broken by the sound of his phone beeping at him from a nearby table. He gave it a hard look, considering if he should even expend the energy to go over and see who was interrupting his musings. But, in the absence of actually coming up with any viable theories regarding Moriarty, he gave in. Striding over, he lifted his phone to read the newest text.

_Pets get lost so easily, don't they? Could cause trouble._  
_JM_

Speak of the devil. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at the text - Moriarty wouldn't send something like that so idly. A series of rapid, horrible scenarios flashed through his mind like gunshots. He shook them away and sent off an angry reply.

_What are you talking about?_  
_SH_

_John Watson got into a taxi 17 minutes ago. It is not taking him where he expected._  
_JM_

Something, perhaps the underlying tone of the message, if texts could ever be said to have one, made Sherlock suddenly feel extremely uneasy. His fingers rapidly typed back a reply as he tried to remain calm. The way Moriarty's text had been worded made it sound as though he was merely an observer - as though he didn't actually have a hand in what had happened to John. Was such wording deliberate, or was it showing a bit of truth? There was no real way to tell.

_Where is it going?_  
_SH_

He was rather taken aback when he received a mildly informative response. The directions that came were specific, but not enough for him to be able to avoid a bit of guesswork. Moriarty was clearly not about to make things too easy, whatever his motivation might be for giving the warning in the first place. The location was a bad one, however, and almost frighteningly isolated - an abandoned warehouse, in an area of the city that very few respectable people had any business going to.

Sherlock paused only grab coat, scarf, and a useful sort of weapon that was easily concealed beneath his clothing. He didn't know why Moriarty was actually helping him - warning him - except that the other man enjoyed watching him scramble, and perhaps even panic. He was well aware that this might even be an elaborate hoax. But the danger John might be in rather outweighed the risk that Sherlock might be playing precisely into Moriarty's hands.

He rushed out of the flat as fast as he could, his breathing already unsteady, his mind already working to unravel the maze of London's streets. John had been right to worry, it seemed - everything was happening at once, and neither of them knew why. Except, of course - and the thought was an unpleasant one - for the fact that Sherlock had very recently emerged back into some semblance of a semi-public life. Was this all due to _him_, then? Was he somehow responsible for whatever danger John was in right now?

* * *

The driver of the cab went on ahead to pull open the long disused door of the warehouse, while the two other men grabbed John by his shoulders and propelled him forward, with the gun still held only inches from the back of his head. The atmosphere within was not at all welcoming - cold metal and only a few glimmers of daylight seeping in from the outside. Once all four men were inside, the phony cabby dragged the door closed again behind them with a steely grind, which faded into horrible silence.

John was furious to find himself shaking, though not surprised. Six months of almost nothing had caused him to forget exactly what it was like to be in imminent danger. He stumbled heavily forward, his head bent low with the threat of the gun so near; he could see only a foot or two in front of him, where his feet struggled to find a quick path without tripping him up. His breath was coming in short, sharp intervals, and no matter how hard he tried to control it, it seemed not to be working very well. The sounds that rang in his ears sent a fresh wave of panic surging through him.

The men holding him abruptly released their grip on him. The one not holding the gun to his head wrenched John's own weapon from the back of the doctor's belt, and then both backed away for several feet. John stumbled again as his captors abruptly let go, but not so much that he didn't feel his last chance of escape being pulled from his reach. He was left standing in the middle of emptiness.

And then the second man raised the confiscated weapon, leveling it skilfully in line with John's head.

"I suggest you don't move - let's just get this over with quietly."

John could feel sweat, damp and chilling, on his palms and forehead. He turned - and stopped short when he saw his own gun pointing at his head.

His mind was going numb; he was aware, far too aware, of the pounding of his heart and rushing of his blood in his ears, and the way each breath made him dizzy as it exploded from him. They were going to kill him. They were going to shoot him, point blank, in the head, in the middle of nowhere, and he would die. He knew he would die, because he knew his own weapon, had seen it aimed at others, had fired it at others, and they had died.

"I didn't - I didn't - _see_- anything -" The words were quick and yet heavy, ragged with desperation; he could only get them out with an effort. The cold-bloodedness of the situation made him want to scream. This wasn't a battlefield; it was an execution.

"For all we know, you're lying, and that's a risk we can't afford to take." There was a loud click as the man cocked the gun, reaching up to steady its aim with his other hand.

Helpless. If there was one thing John couldn't bear, it was a feeling of helplessness. Even if he moved, even if he threw himself to the side, ran forward, did _something_ - it would make no difference, for the distance between himself and his kidnappers was too far, and the range of the handgun - _his _handgun - too close.

"I'm not - not lying." John turned his face to the ceiling, lost in shadow, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. The trembling was very difficult to control, but he clenched his hands into fists anyway, digging his nails into his palm. How could it all end like this? "I know you don't believe me - but - I'm not - and I don't even know -" He swallowed hard, looking toward the man again. " - who the hell you are."

* * *

Sherlock knew he had found the right place when he saw the empty cab parked in the cracked lot, and beyond, the looming structure of the warehouse. Caution struggled against urgency - for once, he didn't know whether to run forward or to make sure he wouldn't be charging straight into a trap. And every second that ticked by was wasted in his indecision.

He settled for a swift lope, and reached the door within moments. Sherlock pulled his handgun from beneath his coat, took a quick breath, then reached out and yanked open the heavy door. It had barely been pulled back before he was through and inside.

The first thing he saw was the figure of a man who looked vaguely familiar, and who whirled to face him even as he moved a quick step closer. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise - he recognised the other as one of Mycroft's underlings.

"Fisher, what the hell are -"

Then he froze as another voice came out of the gloom beyond the outlines of two more recognisable men.

"I don't even know - who the hell you are -"

Sherlock felt as though all strength had drained from his body, and the only sound he could hear was the horrible rhythm of his own pulse. His breathing was no longer rapid, but seemed to have ceased altogether. His eyes were bound to the invisible line between the gun held in one man's hands and the trembling form of John Watson.

John had nearly felt his heart stop with relief when he heard that voice - the loud, arrogant, and furious tones that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't dare move, though, not even to turn to his head to make sure he wasn't imagining things, because however real Sherlock was, the gun was real too, and it was still pointed at him.

"Oh God - John - no, NO!"

Sherlock had seen the man holding the gun turn his head slightly in response to the intrusion, had seen the expression in the other's eyes upon realising that the private party was no longer private. But worst of all, he had seen what only he would notice - the nearly imperceptible tightening of the man's hands which said he was about to fire.

Shoving past Fisher, who looked astonished upon seeing his employer's younger brother appear out of nowhere, Sherlock threw himself forward. His hand reached out, grabbing the arm that was steadying the gun and wrenching it aside - just as the other man squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the handgun going off exploded in Sherlock's ears as he dropped to the ground, pulling the other man off balance. He scrambled up, regaining his footing, and whipped around to view John.

Something near Sherlock's heart twisted sickeningly, and then the organ seemed to stop beating altogether.

* * *

Ooooh, the suspense... Cliffhangers are so wonderfully rude, aren't they? May the Force be with you.


	11. Chapter 10: Bonds Of Blood

_Having Sherlock ride the emotional rollercoaster is rather interesting, particularly when it flaps his normally unflappable self._**  
**

_Many thanks to all of you readers who have been following and reviewing the story so far - we hope you're enjoying the journey._

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Bonds Of Blood**

_My brother has the mind of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?_

For John, the entire scene seemed to have played out in slow motion - he saw, far too distinctly, Sherlock rushing forward, the hand reaching out in a desperate attempt to pull the gun aside -

And then, suddenly, he felt the agonising pain in his side, and time caught up. He was on the ground without knowing how he got there, both hands pressed to the wound from which blood was blossoming through both his shirt and his jacket. He could see it - dark and shining, running crimson between his fingers, leaving a trail all the way down to his wrist. Disconnected images that he recognised vaguely as memories from Afghanistan shot in a flash of sound and color through his mind. Someone cried out horribly in pain - or was that him? - and he fixed his eyes desperately on Sherlock, trying to block it all out.

"You - took your time - getting here -"

Sherlock felt his legs move automatically, bringing him over to his friend in strange jerking movements of unreality. The handgun fell from his fingers in unison with his knees hitting the floor. He was vaguely aware that his breathing had started again, though he wished it hadn't - it tore from his throat in harsh gasps.

"John - John -"

Sherlock shook his head violently, trying to clear the fog from his brain, but when he finally managed it, the scene that was revealed was grim. Already he could feel the hot blood beginning to soak through the knees of his trousers. He put one hand over John's, forcing himself to gauge the extent of the wound, but the task proved impossible with so much blood spilling out. Sherlock dragged the scarf from his neck and pressed it swiftly, tightly, against his friend's side.

"John - I'm sorry -"

John shrank away, letting out a sharp gasp at the increased pressure on the wound; he had forgotten, it seemed, what it felt like to have a bullet buried in his flesh. His head was spinning, and he knew it probably wouldn't be long before he would pass out from a combination of stress and blood loss. His entire body was trembling violently.

"Not - not like that - Sherlock - idiot - _shit _- " Gritting his teeth, he tried to help Sherlock press the scarf more efficiently against his side to staunch the flow of blood, but his hands wouldn't work properly, they were shaking so badly. He fell back a little, breathing hoarsely and willing himself to stay conscious for just a little longer, and yet with each moment that passed he had to fight harder not to give in.

Sherlock released his hold on the scarf for a few moments in order to snatch his phone from his pocket, and ignoring the blood, he speed-dialed Lestrade's number. At this moment it didn't matter that the Detective Inspector thought he was dead. As soon as the dial tone began, he hit the speakerphone button and dropped the device on the floor.

"Lestrade, I need an ambulance over here, now!" Sherlock shouted at the phone even as he crouched lower over John, forcing down his panic so that he could inform Lestrade of their location.

There was a very long pause on the other end. _"W-what? Sherlock, is that you? What -"_

"Just shut up and get over here! John's dy - " But he caught himself. "John's been hurt!"

"Never -" John blinked as Sherlock's anguished features swam in and out of focus. " - never get - on my case again - about - stating the - the obvious -" he managed to gasp out, somewhat deliriously, he thought, though a moment later he stiffened again and clenched his eyes tightly shut, as if that could make the pain vanish.

"Sherlock... what's happening... does Lestrade..."

Sherlock made a pretence of checking that his blood-soaked scarf was still in place, but his trembling hands told the truth behind that apparently calm movement. He gritted his teeth, trying to maintain a cool frame of mind - but for once it wasn't working.

"Lestrade's sending an ambulance." He managed to get the words out with relative clarity. He could see that John was now fighting desperately for every moment. Sherlock dropped his face into his bloodied hands, unable to come to terms with the fact that there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do right now except wait. God, why was he so helpless, so _useless? _When he looked up again, there were actual tears streaking through the crimson stains on his skin.

On the tail end of a wave of dizziness, John opened his eyes again, only to see Sherlock with his head in his hands. "Don't - Sherlock, don't - don't do that -" Painfully, he drew in a long breath. "You're panicking - stop panicking, Sherlock - and just talk to me - just keep talking, OK?"

Sherlock forced himself to take several deep breaths. "I'm not panicking," he replied harshly, half out of instinct, and half to do as John had asked and just continue talking. "I just -" But he didn't know what to say after that. He had never been good at this - he could talk for minutes almost without breathing when he felt like it, but when it came to forcing conversation, he generally ended up failing miserably.

John leaned back again, letting out his breath in a harsh puff of air. "_Keep talking_," he forced out again, but already he knew that Sherlock needed more than that. "Tell me - how did you know - where - where to go?"

It took a moment for Sherlock to register the question and then respond. "I got a text," he said slowly, closing his eyes. "From - Moriarty. He - he told me where you had gone..." Even with John practically dying at his feet, Sherlock couldn't help but realise then that if his friend pulled through this, he himself would owe Moriarty an unbearable debt.

"Moriarty..." John whispered, and for a moment the word hung in the air between them, strange and ominous. "Why would he... give a damn..." It was taking too much effort now; barely realising as he did it, John flung out a hand and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, as though it were a lifeline. He felt his fingers slip slightly, covered in blood as they were, but he held on all the same.

"I mean it...Sherlock...keep talking to me...I can't..."

Sherlock put his other hand over John's, keeping the other's fingers from falling away. "I don't know," he whispered, his pulse quickening again. "John - John, listen to me -" He cast around unthinkingly for something, anything, he could say. "You're going to be alright - John -"

_Sherlock Holmes is spouting clichés? _John wanted to say it but speaking was almost beyond him now. He felt a strange, absurd compulsion to laugh, which was probably not a good sign. He tightened his fingers around his friend's wrist, hoping that would show he had heard, and that it would encourage him to continue talking, because that was all that was keeping John conscious right now. He bit back another sound of pain, forcing it to die in his throat.

Sherlock clenched his own hand painfully tight over John's grip on his wrist. "Damn it, John, you're not going to die like this -" His voice came out in broken fragments, the words unbidden and so _stupid_, but what else was he supposed to say? "I won't let you -" He stared down at his friend, shaking his head in denial of the tears beginning to run freely from his angry eyes.

Unable to prevent it any longer, John let his head fall back completely against the hard floor of the warehouse. "Keep ...talking..." He wasn't sure if he actually said the words or not. He could feel his fingers slipping now, and no matter how much he fought, he couldn't seem to get the strength back to keep them there.

"No - John, listen to me, _listen to me -_"

Sherlock grasped John's hand in his, putting the other on his friend's shoulder. "John - please -" He kept his eyes fixed on John's face, willing him to to remain conscious. He didn't want to think about what would happen if the other fell silent completely.

From somewhere behind him, there came the sounds of wailing sirens and a large vehicle skidding to a halt. A few moments later he heard the warehouse door bang open again.

Running footsteps and other miscellaneous noises began cluttering the air. Sherlock heard Lestrade's voice suddenly cut through to him.

"_Sherlock? _What the - oh, bloody hell..."

Without even looking up, Sherlock sensed Lestrade directing the ambulance medics to bring over a litter. His eyes remained focused on John, taking in the lines of pain on the other man's face, the almost invisible flutter of his eyelashes, the twitch of his lungs as he gasped in oxygen. Even as the ambulance personnel gathered around, Sherlock refused to remove his hand from his friend's shoulder.

Moments later, John's fingers relaxed completely and his blood-stained hand slipped away, with only Sherlock's grip keeping it from falling back down altogether. The breaths that came from his lips were harsh, shallow, and very faint.

Sherlock felt Lestrade pull him aside so that the litter could be lifted and borne away quickly to the ambulance. This time, he didn't try to resist - it was finally filtering through that John was better off in the medics' hands than those of his best friend. His features stony, Sherlock watched until a shake of his shoulder made him turn.

Lestrade was looking at him with an expression that was part shock, part exasperation and part downright confusion. In other words, the look he usually wore when dealing with the aftermath of something in which the world's only consulting detective had played a part. "I'm not going to ask how you're possibly alive -" he began.

"Good," Sherlock broke in. "How many cars do you have out there?" There was something not quite right in the way his eyes were looking at the other man.

"I - what?"

"Cars - _how many cars?_" There was no patience to be found in Sherlock's tone.

"I brought two, plus the ambulance - I usually need back-up when I'm cleaning up your messes -"

"Get one of your people to drive me to wherever Mycroft is lurking this week." Sherlock began striding away, his shoulders rigid, pausing only to retrieve his discarded handgun. Lestrade dashed after him, clearly very much off-balance.

"What - hang on, Sherlock, you can't just go -"

Sherlock suddenly rounded on the other man, his face livid. "_Don't_ tell me what I can and can't do, Lestrade! Just get me to see Mycroft!"

* * *

Unlike his younger brother, Mycroft was actually where he was supposed to be; in other words, at his pristinely organized and polished desk, in one of his (numerous) offices. One thin hand was holding the receiver of his desk phone to his ear, while the other scribbled away busily with a silver pen on a pad of expensive-looking paper. His brow was furrowed slightly, but perhaps no more than usual, and every once in awhile he would nod, despite being the only person in the room.

Without any warning whatsoever, the rather ornate-looking door of the office burst open, so hard that it rebounded off the wall next in which it was set. Almost at the same time, an earsplitting bang echoed through the previously silent room, and the pen-holder which had been sitting on one corner of Mycroft's desk was unexpectedly pulverized by a speeding bullet.

Sherlock began walking slowly forward towards his brother, the gun levelled and held steady in both hands. His clothes and skin were still deeply stained with blood. Dark fury had twisted his normally impassive features, but he seemed to prefer not to speak quite yet.

He wanted Mycroft to remember his actions, not his words.

Mycroft had stood very quickly the second the door banged open, his eyes wide with unexpected surprise. The sight and sound of the bullet had sent the desk phone clattering from his hand, where it bounced off the wood and then fell toward the floor only to bob gently on its cord a few inches from the rug.

Shock rooted Mycroft in place as his eyes darted from the gun to his brother's face. "Sherlock!" he shouted, anger beginning to replace the surprise, "what in heaven's name do you think you're doing?" His hands were rigid as they gripped the edge of his desk.

"Some people," replied Sherlock, still pacing forward, "would call it justice, Mycroft." It was frightening how very calm his tone actually was when he spoke. "But then, that's not really your area, is it?"

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath, seeming to regain his composure, if only slightly. "Put the gun down, Sherlock, and then perhaps you can explain why you're so determined to point it at me." The look he fixed Sherlock with was piercing, and commanding.

Under ordinary circumstances, Sherlock might have obeyed. But what had happened to John seemed to have erased what little respect he held for those in positions of authority. He returned Mycroft's imperious look without flinching, pointedly grasping the gun a little tighter.

"And what if I don't?" he asked, his voice ominously low. "What will you do then, Mycroft?"

Turning his eyes briefly to the ceiling, Mycroft let out a low sigh. "I'm still considering," he said in a voice laced with annoyance. "Now what is this _about_?"

The fact that Mycroft didn't seem to be scared witless, or was even remotely panicking, seemed to only enrage his younger brother. "This is about _you!_" shouted Sherlock. "You and Fisher and those other bloody bastards!"

Mycroft's eyebrows went up. "I'm afraid," he began carefully, "I don't really follow you -"

Sherlock's voice suddenly dropped again. "You've got one of your little schemes going again, haven't you?" he said, very quietly, his eyes staring at Mycroft along the line of the handgun. "You've got your people trying to make a deal with some criminal characters, but you don't want anyone to know about it - so you have to make sure that anyone who stumbles across it doesn't live long enough to cause a leak. Your stupid lackeys are so tense about it that they don't even bother to check who the clumsy party is."

"I won't bother to ask how you managed to stick your nose in this time, Sherlock," Mycroft replied testily, his mouth going very thin, "but I can assure you it is none of your concern." He stared down at his desk for a moment, then up again. "It's nothing you'd be interested in."

"Oh, no, of course not. Not the least bit interested."

Sherlock moved the last few steps to Mycroft's desk, the gun still held ready. "Except for one tiny little detail which you somehow managed to overlook," he added. His voice shook slightly as he finished, "The man your people decided to _eliminate_was a completely innocent doctor by the name of John Watson!"

For once, Mycroft did not seem to know what to say. He stared at Sherlock, his expression moving from shock to puzzlement to worry and back again, and he couldn't seem to decide which emotion was more appropriate.

"John," he repeated, in a voice barely above a whisper. "John - no, that's not - simply not possible -"

"And I'm sure that's a great comfort to him - though in fact I doubt he's conscious enough to even absorb that thought!" Sherlock suddenly lowered the gun, and then hurled the weapon to one side. His pulse was pounding in his ears. "Your people abducted and shot him, Mycroft, and for all I know right now, he could be _dead!_" He spread his arms wide. "Or did you think this was my own blood?"

Mycroft's eyes followed the gun as it clattered to the floor near the far wall. "I didn't know." The words were quiet, and when he turned back to Sherlock, his expression was sincerely pained. "I swear to you, Sherlock, I had no idea - I was only told the bare facts, and otherwise I have had to remain aloof from most of the actual negotiations."

"That's not what's important, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled back. "Was I not clear? John Watson is dying at this moment because you didn't care to take an interest in the _details _of one of your schemes! Ignorance of the facts is not a defence!"

Mycroft's expression hardened. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?" he demanded, his voice sharp and loud now. "I hardly think threatening your brother is going to change anything here. If John is so badly injured you should be _with _him, don't you think?"

Sherlock glared at him, for once apparently lost for words that would express the depth of what he was feeling right now. Part of him wished he hadn't thrown away the gun, if only to have something with which to try and provoke more than a few sympathetic phrases from Mycroft. He exhaled slowly, trying to control his rapid breathing. This was why he hated dealing with his brother - Mycroft, more than almost anyone else he knew, never panicked, never lost control. And at times like this, it proved to be deeply unsatisfying to Sherlock.

He closed his eyes briefly, then flicked them open again to look at his brother. "If John dies, I'll make sure you're the first to know." Sherlock's tone was low and menacing.

"I don't believe there's anything appropriate for me to say to that," Mycroft answered quietly, lifting his chin a little and fixing Sherlock with his stare again. He hesitated, then shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I am... sorry. There is always a risk, of course, with arrangements of this nature, but I hadn't expected... well." He didn't seem inclined to go any further along that line of thought.

Mycroft's mild tone seemed to arouse Sherlock's fury again. Without thinking, without even hesitating, he struck his brother as hard as he could across the face.

"Did you expect _that_, Mycroft?" he breathed. Not wanting to look at at other man for a moment longer, Sherlock wheeled around and stalked away towards the door, this time not bothering to retrieve his gun.

Mycroft had not seen the blow coming; he drew in his breath sharply in surprise and raised one hand to the large, reddened mark now spreading along one side of his face. The hand was trembling slightly, and it seemed for a split second that it was with rage, and that Mycroft would begin shouting suddenly, but he didn't. Instead, he gazed after Sherlock with an almost pitying expression.

"No," he said, very quietly, "I thought you had forsworn sentiment. Clearly, I was in error."

Despite being halfway across the room, Sherlock heard his brother's soft remark. He stopped suddenly, stiffening, and looking as though he might turn around. And then it seemed to hit him all over again, breaking through his wall of anger - John - shot, bleeding, in terrible pain, maybe dying, perhaps already d -

He fought down a horrible surge of panic. Mycroft had been right about one thing - Sherlock now realised that he needed to go to John. He couldn't leave his friend alone. He half-dashed to the door, pulled it open roughly, and disappeared without another backward glance.

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Reviews shall never go unnoticed or unappreciated! May the Force be with you.


	12. Chapter 11: Aftermath

_This one came together more quickly than expected, so good news for those of you pleading for more! A bit more laid-back here, after the excitement of last chapter._

_Thank you to everyone for their favourites, alerts, and especially reviews!_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Aftermath**

_He's not like that. He doesn't - feel - things that way._

Black was starting to lighten to grey, and John had decided he wasn't very happy about that. He didn't want to wake up, not yet, because the unconscious was so blissfully ignorant of whatever his body was going through right now, and he was almost positive he wouldn't enjoy it very much. He frowned without meaning to as his senses and his awareness slowly returned. Not so bad, not yet...

Then the pain returned, and he felt his lungs draw in a sharp gasp of a breath, while his body tensed, hands clenching around the surface that had suddenly materialised beneath him. He was used to telling people that pain was good - it told you when to back away, let you know that you were healing, that you were simply _alive _- but right this moment, he just wanted it to evaporate. Not that that was likely to happen.

He had not opened his eyes yet - he didn't want to - but he could hear faint stirrings of movement nearby, and his lips murmured a hoarse and probably incoherent response.

"Wh... Sherlock... Sher..."

For several hours now, Sherlock had been alternating between restless pacing and sitting almost perfectly still in the chair beside John's hospital bed. He had been assured that John had every chance of pulling through, as the bullet in his side had not damaged any vital organs. And to almost everyone who had seen him since, Sherlock had appeared to accept that calmly. To anyone who knew him, however, it would have been fairly obvious that he was still extremely agitated.

It was during one of his periods of pacing that Sherlock heard a soft mumble from behind him. He pivoted to face John's bed, and saw that the other's lips were twitching slightly. Moving closer, he bent over his friend, hoping that he would speak further.

But the swirling moment of consciousness had passed. Safely assured that Sherlock was nearby, John allowed himself to sink back into a dreamless sleep.

He did not wake again, he later learned, until nearly seven hours later. The process was slightly easier this time, at least, though it still took him much longer than he would have liked to pull himself up from the groggy state of unconsciousness. To his dismay, Sherlock seemed to think that sticking his face as close as possible to monitor those signs of wakening was still the best policy, and the detective proceeded to do so.

It was at that very moment that John forced his eyes open, flinched, and immediately wished he hadn't when a flare of pain shot up his side again. "Sherlock," he said in a whisper, "get any closer and... people here will... start talking. _Move._" He flapped one hand ineffectually in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock raised both eyebrows at this unexpected remark. "You don't think people were talking already?" he asked mildly. "And I thought you were the one keeping track of all the juicy stories in the newspaper." He neatly caught John's hand as it flapped by and set it down firmly again, then after a moment, took a seat himself.

"Shut up," John retorted lightly. "You could at least act like you're glad I'm awake." He closed his eyes again for a moment, breathing slowly, trying not to think about the important things - and there were a lot of them. Shifting slightly and wincing, he peered through one eye at his friend. "How long have you been here?" How long had _he _been here, actually?

Sherlock glanced at his watch, and was surprised to see how much time had passed since he had last returned to the room. "Three, four hours," he hazarded, not quite sure when he had arrived or where exactly the time had got to. He had been far too busy thinking and pacing to notice the minutes ticking by.

John nodded. "That long?" he murmured vaguely. "Did you ride in the ambulance or something? Wasn't sure they'd let you."

Sherlock seemed slightly taken aback by the question. "Erm... no," he said, rather slowly. "I got a ride in one of Lestrade's cars, actually." For whatever reason - though he knew the reason perfectly well - he seemed reluctant to elaborate on the subject.

"Oh?" John looked slightly more alert upon hearing that. "And Lestrade, he, erm - he's convinced now, is he?"

Sherlock managed a slight shrug. "Well, I assume so. He didn't try to pinch himself, in any case."

"Well that's -" John broke off with a sharp gasp as he accidentally moved a little too much. " - good." He let out his breath again. "Very good."

Sherlock pressed his lips together slightly, recognising that John was obviously in pain. "Do you...want me to leave?" he asked after a moment. The words came out awkwardly.

Quickly, John shook his head. "Not unless you - need to be somewhere else," he said, with a movement that came out to be a very stiff shrug. He gave Sherlock an odd look all the same, confused at the sudden consideration. His friend must have been quite shaken by what had transpired.

Typically, Sherlock picked up on that curious glance. "What?" he asked immediately, with a slight frown. "And no, I don't," he added in response to the other's comment, and very deliberately continued, "Everywhere else I'd be bored, anyway."

"Sitting here watching me wince isn't boring?" John retorted pointedly, with a somewhat sceptical raise of his eyebrow. "Your choice, though." He fell silent for a long moment, for there were a few other questions that came to mind, but he wasn't sure if now was the right time to be asking them. He settled for the most vague.

"Are... you OK, Sherlock?" His voice sounded hesitant, even to him.

"Yes - better than I was," was the somewhat cryptic response. Sherlock hoped that this reply, more of an admission than he generally gave in the first place, would serve as enough of a buffer to keep John from prying too much deeper. But he knew John too well to count on tactical success.

John grimaced. "It's not supposed to work that way, you know - me having to be shot _and _calm just because you couldn't be." His tone was more of a complaint than a criticism.

"I..."

Sherlock stared at him as though only now comprehending that what the other said had indeed been the case. He blinked, unsure of what to say, and then muttered as blandly as he could, "I'm sorry."

But John suddenly found that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "No, don't apologise," he broke in quickly, if still quietly. "It was - it was good, actually, in a way." He nodded. "For once, you acted like - a normal person. Bit of an accomplishment for you, really. Panicking."

Sherlock seemed to muse on that for a moment. "Yes, I suppose it was," he said finally, frowning again. "But it didn't exactly help your situation at the time. I could have been of more use if I'd stayed slightly rational..."

"Well, yeah." John looked away again. He could tell, he just _knew_, that Sherlock was holding something back. "Sherlock," he said softly, still staring deliberately at the ceiling and trying to keep his voice as casual as possible, "who were they?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. Oh, God, there it was - the question he didn't want to answer. He couldn't deny that John obviously had a right to know, but that didn't mean he _should_.

Inhaling deeply, he glanced down at John's immobile features, then replied very quietly. "They belonged to Mycroft." He felt he should probably explain the details, so that John didn't get the impression that his best friend's brother was trying to have him murdered; but he didn't know how to word the delicate information.

"They - _what_?"

John twisted his head around to stare at Sherlock and unthinkingly sat up - or rather, tried to. It felt almost as though the bullet had gone into his side a second time, and with a muffled swear he immediately fell flat again, drawing a sharp hiss of a breath.

"I did - hear you right, didn't I?" he forced out with an effort. "You did say..." He shut his eyes, hardly believing it. "Mycroft."

Sherlock could feel tension creeping into his body again as his mind went over the conversation he had forced with Mycroft. The memories were not pleasant.

"Yes," he murmured, giving John a look of surprising concern. "He says he had no idea who it was that his people were going after. Everything I hypothesised about the meeting you walked in on was correct... we just didn't know the particulars." His features turned hard. "I had a little discussion with him on that subject, actually."

John let out his breath slowly as he eased himself to a more comfortable position. "Wh - you - talked, with him? When?" He felt a vague sinking sensation as he said it; he had thought, somehow, that Sherlock might have been with him the whole time - but no, that was stupid. He looked away again. That was a long shot. Sherlock didn't work that way.

"After the ambulance left the warehouse," replied Sherlock, his tone rather grim. "I wouldn't call it talking, really... more like I shouted and he _hopefully _listened."

He noticed how John pointedly turned his head away, and saw the vague disappointment in the other's eyes. Sherlock felt a wave of confusion, and he frowned, trying understand what it was that was making his friend suddenly so shifty.

"You... wished I hadn't," he said after a minute, beginning to realise the problem. "You wanted me to stay..." He trailed off, brow furrowed as he looked down at his hands, at the blood still staining his clothing.

John let out a soft sigh, but his eyes flickered to Sherlock for only a second. "It's... not important," he said shortly. It was also a lie, but he didn't feel like trying to explain. He knew that sitting around was something Sherlock was very bad at, and it was more than likely that bullying Mycroft had made him feel a lot better when he could do nothing to help John.

Sherlock continued to eye his friend for a few moments longer, then abruptly rose from his seat and turned away, pressing his fingers together near his lips. He didn't know how to respond to John right now, because while Sherlock himself couldn't find anything actually wrong with the course of action he had taken, it was clearly not the one John had been hoping for.

He let out a soft sigh, staring blankly at the uninteresting white wall of the room. It seemed that the issue here was their differing methods in dealing with situations like this. John would have let his emotions guide him, and thus would have fussed over Sherlock and stayed with him perpetually, had the positions been reversed. But Sherlock let his mind win out over his heart, going straight to the source of what had happened. In the end, was either choice really better than the other?

John turned his head back again as he heard Sherlock rise suddenly. He watched his friend for a long moment, frowning slightly, then asked again in a mild voice, "You OK?"

"Fine, fine," mumbled Sherlock, though in truth he had barely even heard the question. There were too many things that still needed sorting out, but it was difficult to get his mind to work on that with John distracting him.

"No, you're not." John hesitated. "Should I even ask what you did to your brother?"

"I told you. We had a little chat." Sherlock's tone was almost bland, as though he really believed that a chat was all that had actually happened.

John gave him a highly sceptical look. "Right. You just walked in there" - he demonstrated with a gesture of his hand - "sat down, and had a calm, rational discussion." He shook his head, letting out a slight, humourless laugh. "No, you didn't. Tell me what really happened, Sherlock."

Sherlock pursed his lips and continued to stare at the wall as he replied. "I walked in, shot the pen holder off his desk, and then told him rather pointedly what had happened because of his plotting and why I didn't care for the end result."

It took a moment for John to comprehend that. "You - shot the pen holder off his desk," he repeated, blinking as though that would ensure he had heard correctly. "That's, erm... bit dramatic, don't you think?" he suggested mildly.

"I was going to go for the portrait of some nameless person in history hanging behind his head, but that might have been a bit close, even for my aim," admitted Sherlock, his voice impassive. "The pen holder was the only other obvious target."

John pressed his lips together for a moment, unsure whether he should be upset or laughing. There was nothing amusing about what had happened, but all the same, there was that one image of Sherlock shooting the stupid pen holder off the desk... he expected there wasn't much left of the poor object.

"Right," he said finally. "Well." He was still looking at Sherlock, and it was beginning to dawn how utterly unkempt his friend was right now. "Sherlock," he added a second later, "you might want to, you know, clean yourself up a bit - I assume you haven't bothered." He directed a pointed nod at the bloodstains.

"I don't know why you need to assume; isn't it obvious?" Sherlock turned back toward John and glanced down at himself. "I did wash my hands," he said after a moment, spreading them in demonstration.

John glanced at them. "Good start," he agreed, nodding and raising his eyebrows. "It might be good if you took care of the rest of it, though - don't want people thinking you're supposed to be a patient who's wandering about without permission."

Sherlock let out a soft snort. "A patient wouldn't be dressed like this. I should hope the staff would be able to tell _that _much."

"Yeah, well, it's probably still a good idea," John pointed out, ignoring Sherlock's logic. "To be honest, it's a bit disconcerting to be looking at my blood smeared all over someone else's face."

"Oh." Sherlock frowned, glancing between John and his clothing and back again. "I hadn't thought of it that way," he admitted.

John grinned very faintly. "I was pretty sure you hadn't."

Sherlock stood there for a moment in silence, then straightened briskly, clearing his throat. "I suppose I'll head back to the flat and do that, then," he said. "Do you want me to stop by again later?"

John hesitated, considering. He was fairly certain Sherlock didn't really _want _to spend what he would consider meaningless time sitting around and doing nothing, and it would probably end up making the atmosphere more tense than friendly. Sherlock would do it, though, if he asked, only to be stubborn and to prove... something.

So John shook his head. "No, you don't have to," he said quickly. "It's fine." He met Sherlock's gaze steadily.

Sherlock held that gaze for a few moments, then nodded, turning towards the door. "Right. I'll see you later, then." Halfway out of the room, however, he wheeled around again, tilting his head at John. "Erm... John..." He hesitated, then went on, "Try not to get excited and move too much. Won't do your side any good." And with that he quietly left.

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As always, comments and reviews are greeted with loud huzzahs! May the Force be with you.


	13. Chapter 12: Problem Solving, or Not

****_This is sort of a wrapping-up chapter, so to speak. That's not to say the story is coming to an end - far from it - but you could say that this marks the end of what we shall vaguely call part one. And hey, look, Molly gets a cameo!_

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**Chapter Twelve: Problem Solving, Or Not**

_But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problems. No. That wasn't the final problem._

"Sorry - are you busy?"

Sherlock glanced up from where he was seated at the microscope in the lab of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He had found himself spending quite a bit of time here during the last few days, and not so much experimenting as lurking. Experimenting was part of it, of course - it kept his mind reasonably occupied for significant lengths of time, and provided as good a reason as any for why he was staying at the hospital for hours at a time. But the real reason, of course, was John.

He didn't know _why _he felt the need to be in his friend's immediate vicinity, and that lack of self-understanding irked him. There was no reason to be worried, really. John was on the mend with no complications, and seemed to be in relatively good spirits in spite of the constant fussing being lavishly bestowed upon him at frequent intervals by Mrs Hudson. So why was it, Sherlock asked himself almost irritably, that he could only stand being back at the flat for so long before he felt the creeping urge, once again, to shut himself in Bart's lab? What did his subconscious think was going to happen if he wasn't there, on hand?

The look he tossed over to Molly now was strangely neutral. She was dithering just inside the door, acting as though she wasn't quite sure if it was safe to approach or not. Admittedly, Sherlock hadn't given her much incentive to talk to him lately; whenever she had come in to check on him over the last few days, his snappish replies had quickly driven her away again.

"A bit," he replied carefully, after a short pause. He could see the faint relief on her face that he had kept his tone moderate.

Molly nodded quickly. "Oh, okay. It's just - I was upstairs a minute ago, visiting with John, and Detective Inspector Lestrade was there too, and he asked me if I could come down and see if you were here. And then if you were - I mean, since you are - he wants to talk to you, I think."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I expect he does," he said dismissively. "You can tell Lestrade that I'm unavailable."

"Erm, well," said Molly awkwardly, "the thing is, I - sort of already told him that you were here." She flushed slightly at the flat look which Sherlock turned to give her.

"And if I don't go up, he'll probably come looking for me?"

"I - probably, I mean, he seemed pretty, erm -"

"Fine." Sherlock cut her off mid-sentence, switching off the microscope and standing up. He strode across the room to the door, with Molly hurriedly stepping aside as he brushed past her. He wasn't really inclined to deal with Lestrade at the moment, but at the same time, he could hardly call the visit unexpected. The other man was bound to have more than a handful of questions regarding the incident at the warehouse, not to mention about Sherlock himself.

"He's doing alright, you know," Molly called after him into the hallway.

Sherlock paused, glancing back. "I'm well aware," he said evenly.

"Okay. I just - thought I'd let you know. Since you seemed so worried." Molly's expression was hesitant, but strangely earnest.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "I appreciate that," he replied levelly. Turning away again, he headed off down the hallway, unable to quell the smallest stirrings of confusion at Molly's words.

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John was sitting up when Sherlock strode in, his back propped with numerous pillows that all had Mrs Hudson's considerate touch. His eyes glanced every once in a while to the bedside monitors, with an expression that was surprisingly exasperated for a man who knew the importance of each and every one of them. Though still a shade or two paler than usual, he looked considerably more rested than he had the previous day; his expression was alert and thoughtful as he exchanged a quiet word with Lestrade, who had pulled up a chair nearby.

"Oh, hi," John said, looking around when the door slid open. "Took you long enough."

"_Molly _took her time coming down," Sherlock corrected him pointedly, stepping inside and closing the door again behind him. He turned his attention immediately to Lestrade, and his expression was bland, but with a hint of something unfriendly. "What do you want?"

Lestrade glanced up him with a look that said he had already rather resigned himself to the worst. "Yeah, nice to see you too," he said conversationally. "John's just been filling me in on all the interesting stuff you two've got up to lately."

John nodded his agreement, looking neither worried nor repentant. "It's about time we did, I thought," he explained, more for Sherlock's benefit than Lestrade's. He turned a slight wry grin on the Inspector, though the expression somehow didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now that you have to take him at face value again."

Lestrade grimaced slightly at that, looking back to Sherlock as though expecting a smart remark. "I tried to never do that anyway," he muttered. "There's always something." He shook his head. "Like this whole thing with your brother, I still don't -"

"Mycroft has his hands in half a dozen different intrigues at any given time," Sherlock cut in, "many of them undercover and quite often illegal. Feel free to take it up with him, though I wouldn't advise it. You won't get far." He glanced over at John. "How much have you told him?" he asked. He hadn't quite decided yet if he wanted Lestrade to know the full extent of what could be called the "Moriarty business", and hoped that John had had the sense to hold back at least some of the details.

"Erm - " John hesitated, shifting beneath the pristine hospital sheets. "Finsbury Gate, everything that happened thanks to that. Oh, and I sort of tried to explain about you, too, but - maybe you should do that later."

"What do you mean by 'tried'?" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and continued to hold John's gaze.

John sighed, frowned, and shook his head. "Never mind. Just assume I botched it and you should get Greg caught up sometime soon." He shot Lestrade a somewhat apologetic look.

Lestrade checked his watch, then shrugged. "I've got time," he said, and looked expectantly over at Sherlock. "Sort of why I came over here."

Sherlock didn't look especially pleased at that. He had planned on giving an explanation of sorts to Lestrade - as he had told John not long ago - but at the time he hadn't quite worked out how he was going to do it. It certainly hadn't involved having the task pressed on him at an inconvenient time.

"I don't think I need to go into particular detail," he said finally. "Suffice to say, faking my own death was the only way to end Moriarty's little charade. I hope that the fact that I'm standing here is proof enough for you, Lestrade." He shot a very pointed look at the DI, who had the grace to look slightly ashamed, though defensive at the same time.

John looked between them for a moment with his lips pressed together. Things were, so far, going better than he might have hoped, but he wasn't about to let Sherlock pass all this off so casually. "You would've been killed," he said bluntly, looking to Lestrade. "You and me both, apparently, and Mrs Hudson, if Sherlock hadn't - hadn't done what he did."

"What?" said Lestrade, his tone slightly disbelieving. "I don't - what're you talking about?" His gaze swivelled between John and Sherlock, confused.

Sherlock's features seemed to contort for a moment, and he stared at the wall rather than one of the other two men as he explained. "Moriarty had gunmen watching you," he said, as tonelessly as possible. "As... incentive." He hoped his voice sounded steadier than it felt.

"So if you didn't jump..." said Lestrade slowly, in a voice of dawning comprehension, and as Sherlock nodded tightly, the DI put a hand to his face for a moment. "My God..."

"Yeah, that's about the size of it," John confirmed in a low voice. He caught the look on Lestrade's face before the other man's hand came up and found himself wondering if his own had worn a similar expression the afternoon of Sherlock's reappearance.

Lestrade let out a long breath before re-emerging from behind his palm. "Guess that means you saved my life," he said after a moment, looking up at Sherlock.

The consulting detective flicked his gaze over to Lestrade. "That was the point," he said, his voice strangely harsh.

"Sherlock..." John's tone was quietly warning.

Sherlock snapped his gaze around to his flatmate. "Yes?" he asked, his tone not encouraging.

John shook his head ever so slightly but said nothing. He wondered if there would ever come a time when Sherlock could reliably police his own comments; he rather doubted it. After everything Lestrade had done for them, though, there was no need for the sort of tone the detective had just used.

Sherlock looked as though he knew exactly what John was thinking, and moreover, he didn't care. After several moments of tense silence, he turned back to Lestrade. "I assume I was correct about the murder," he remarked, apparently at random.

Lestrade looked taken aback for a moment, then seemed to understand. "Oh, yeah, the girl and her - yeah." He snorted slightly. "Still got no idea how you managed to get in on that, but yeah, you were right. As usual," he added after a moment.

"What murder was this?" asked John, looking between them with a bewildered frown. "Sherlock, you haven't been on a case - "

"The one I texted him about," said Sherlock shortly.

"The text I assumed was a prank," muttered Lestrade.

"Oh, right." John stared at them for a moment longer before settling back against his pillows with a soft sigh. He had lost track of where this conversation was headed.

Sherlock seemed to struggle indecisively about something for several moments. He was feeling somewhat less than cordial towards Lestrade right now; but at the same time, having the DI finally aware of the truth of the situation would be a significant asset. Perhaps they might be able to - for lack of a better term - help each other out again.

He stared at Lestrade for a few seconds, and then spoke abruptly. "What can you give me?"

This time, Lestrade didn't have to pause and process what Sherlock was asking. He shook his head. "Nothing."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I know for a fact that you've still got at least three open cases -" he began.

"That's not the point. What we've got open doesn't matter - I can't let you in on anything."

John lifted his head again and turned, giving Lestrade a slight, painfully approving nod. They had discussed this before Sherlock came in; even Lestrade agreed that it was too soon for the detective to be openly advertising his partnership with the Yard again, and John had even more incentive, for though he had kept quiet about it in front of the Inspector, he knew Moriarty was still out there, waiting and watching, and the more isolated they could keep Sherlock, the better.

"It's too soon, Sherlock," John added quietly. "Too risky right now."

"Not to mention," continued Lestrade, "all the fast talking I'm going to have to do just to get my superiors to believe all this." He let out a short sigh, looking up at Sherlock. "I _can _fix this. I'm almost certain of it. I owe you that much, at least. But it's going to take time and effort, and until I know it's been sorted, I can't let you get involved in anything." A pause. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock stared at him, feeling his jaw tightening. He could already tell that between Lestrade and John, he wasn't going to be able to change this decision. He watched in stony silence as Lestrade rose from his chair and held out his hand to John.

"I've got to get back now." The DI's tone was back on conversational level. "Take care of yourself, John."

"You too, Greg." John shook the other man's hand warmly. They were very, very lucky to have a man like Lestrade on their side. "Thanks for stopping by; Sherlock's never been the best conversationalist," he added wryly.

Lestrade shrugged. "Nobody's perfect." He turned away, towards the door and Sherlock, but the look on the other man's face was not encouraging. "I'll let you know what happens, then," he offered.

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, but merely nodded and stepped aside. Lestrade pressed his lips together, then brushed past to disappear through the door, which he closed again behind him.

"You didn't tell him about Moriarty?" enquired Sherlock, turning back to John as soon as he was sure that the DI had indeed left.

The doctor shook his head. "I didn't think you'd want me to, and even if you did, I'm not sure I would've known how to put it to him."

Sherlock nodded, his features oddly set. "Good. No need to complicate things more than they already are..."

"That doesn't mean I don't think we owe it to him," John added quietly. "You know we do."

"No, I don't," said Sherlock emphatically. "Moriarty is not his problem, and I don't intend to change that."

"And if Moriarty decides to be his problem, there's not a thing you can do about it," John pointed out, his tone rising sharply at Sherlock's stubbornness. "After last time, we can't dismiss that possibility."

"Moriarty has very little reason to believe that our current connection to Lestrade is anything but tentative, at best," argued Sherlock, not unbitterly. "An attempt to use him against us would have too small a chance of paying off to make it really plausible."

John bit his lip worriedly but decided to let the matter be. If Moriarty did choose to involve the Yard team at any point, they would no doubt find out about it, and until then, there was little they could do to try to prevent such from happening. He let out a soft breath and leaned his head back against the pillows.

To be honest, at the moment, he was glad enough just to be alive.

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More reviews mean less waiting in agony for the next chapter! xD May the Force be with you.


	14. Chapter 13: Tea Time Banter

_Ohh, this is going to be fun... time to get the ball rolling again. You didn't think we could let John get shot and get away with it, did you?_

_Keep those reviews comin'!_

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**Chapter Thirteen: Tea-Time Banter**

_Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know. You've got John..._

It was nearly two weeks later that John was finally allowed to leave the hospital. It would have been longer, but John suspected that his own grumblings and, more likely, Sherlock's unexpected and extremely trying (for the hospital staff) visits were very much to blame, and it was with a distinct air of relief on both sides that he left, in the company of Sherlock.

Sherlock was already unlocking the door as John stepped gingerly out of the cab in front of 221B. The doctor followed, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of a passing bus. "You go upstairs, Sherlock, I'll only be a minute." He made his way stiffly into the front hall and nudged the door shut with his foot. "I only want to let Mrs Hudson know I'm back."

It was the least he could do for the woman, actually; she had visited him almost every day and brought him what Sherlock considered a large quantity of trivial objects, but which John thought were actually rather sweet. Admittedly, the flowers had not lasted more than a few days, but that was probably because Sherlock had kept pulling their petals off when he was bored and had nothing better to do.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John when his back was turned, but didn't comment on the other's intention. It worked out for both of them, actually; in John's absence, the flat had been allowed to degrade into even more of a mess than usual, and Sherlock figured he could at least take a moment to throw things into piles before his friend went in. Reaching instinctively to loosen his (new, but nearly identical) scarf, he headed upstairs.

He took the upper flight of steps two at a time, mentally ticking off how many minutes he had until John finished thanking Mrs Hudson for the many useless tokens she had showered on him during his stay in the hospital. The state of the flat didn't really matter to him, of course, but Sherlock had found himself almost unconsciously trying to do small things for John when he hoped the other wasn't going to notice.

Upon reaching the landing, Sherlock paused, the slightest of frowns creasing his features. He had left the door half-open when he left, and open it now remained, but its position seemed an inch or two off from what he remembered. Extending his hand, he gently shoved it back and stepped over the threshold, his eyes automatically scanning the room. Then an unexpected scent reached his nostrils - the fragrance of freshly brewed tea.

"I hope you don't mind - I sort of invited myself in."

The voice was quiet, but faintly mocking. Moriarty was standing there, just to the left, leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and the rest of the flat. His face bore an expression of careless and slightly insincere apology, and when he met Sherlock's gaze one corner of his mouth twitched upward in the barest of smiles. There was a steaming cup of tea held easily in one hand; he raised it to his lips, still watching Sherlock, and took a long sip. He appeared to be waiting for a response of some kind, and the longer it took, the more amused he would be.

Sherlock stopped immediately upon catching sight of the unexpected visitor, his eyes narrowing; but he recovered himself quickly. His face inscrutable, he casually pulled off his coat and hung it on the back of the door before stepping forward any further. He threw a quick, studying glance at Moriarty then, assessing the other's easy stance.

"You should have called ahead," Sherlock reprimanded him mildly, beginning to move about the flat in an attempt to bring a bit of order to the confusion of material objects. "I could have picked up something to eat on my way here." He carelessly tossed a few things into a corner, adding, "Sorry about the mess..." It was clear he didn't mean a word of it.

"Don't bother cleaning up on my account," Moriarty countered immediately, his eyes following as Sherlock moved about the flat. "I'd rather drop in unexpectedly, anyway." He paused and took another drink of his tea before adding reflectively, "I will say you're taking this better than I thought you would. Congratulations might even be in order."

"Oh, I'm not cleaning up for you," Sherlock commented lightly, ignoring the second remark. "This is for John's benefit, not yours." His face gave no hint that he was just a bit apprehensive of what would happen when his flatmate did walk in.

Moriarty raised a thin eyebrow. "Oh, so you're allowing him to join us, then?" he asked, and underlying his voice was a thin hint of something unfriendly. "And here I thought you wanted to avoid these little reunions... Though, I do suppose you've told him by now?"

"Told him what?" Sherlock straightened, glancing around the room again before returning his gaze to Moriarty. His look was cool, and almost challenging.

"Put it this way..." Moriarty flicked his gaze away from Sherlock again, swirling his cup of tea with one hand. "He's not going to have to go back to the hospital just because he walks in and sees me here, talking to you... at least I hope not, because that would rather spoil things."

Sherlock continued to watch the other man with narrowed eyes. "Well, we couldn't have that, now could we?" he said quietly. "I know how much you hate having your well-laid plans upended."

Moriarty tilted his head back and forth, staring at the ceiling with a faint smile. "Well, it happens so rarely, you see, I haven't really gotten a chance to get used to it."

"Pity," murmured Sherlock. "But I'm sure you'll get another opportunity to adjust sooner or later."

He moved over to the doorway again, peering down the stairs. Very faintly, he could hear the sound of animated conversation - John and Mrs Hudson, no doubt.

"With you, it's always possible," Moriarty agreed softly, though from his tone he was less than convinced. He continued to watch Sherlock carefully over the edge of his tea with the sort of look that suggested he was memorising the other man's every word and movement. "I'm honestly not holding my breath, though. Are you going to call him up, or should we go down?"

"Neither," replied Sherlock, turning to regard Moriarty again. He had no intention of giving the other an advantage in this situation if he could possibly help it, and that meant denying even the most trivial of conversational victories. "I'm sure he'll be coming up shortly."

Moriarty eyed him steadily for a moment, then shrugged. "Suit yourself, then," he said lightly. "I'm in no rush."

It was only a moment later when the door from Mrs Hudson's rooms opened again. John was shaking his head and laughing quietly to himself as he started up the stairs, though his progress was rather slower than he would have liked, given his present condition. Still, it was good to be back at the flat; he wasn't sure how many more days at the hospital he could have tolerated, especially with Sherlock's erratic and apparently spontaneous appearances. The flowers would get a nice reprieve, too, he added to himself.

"Sherlock," John called as he reached the landing, "stop trying to pick up your mess - I know you are. I'll take care of it as soon as I -"

But that was as far as he got before his train of thought came to sudden, sickening jolt of a stop. Sherlock was right there, almost in the doorway, but that wasn't what had made his insides contract. It was the man standing _inside _the flat, the man with a cup of tea in his hand and a delicate expression of incredulity on his face. James Moriarty - and for a long, tense moment, John could only stare.

"What the _hell_ -" With an effort, John lowered his voice, firmly fighting down any uncertain tremors that might sneak into his next words. He raised his chin slightly. "Sherlock - _what _- what is he doing here?"

Sherlock stepped aside so that John could enter, though he wasn't entirely sure that the other wanted to do so. "Drinking your tea, I'm afraid," he answered, giving no hint that he suspected Moriarty's visit to be more than a social call. He knew John wasn't a total idiot, and would probably see through the facade immediately, but the precarious balance of the situation called for a rather lighter touch than might normally have been used in a different encounter with Moriarty.

John took a step forward, but hesitated just on the threshold of the door. He glanced sharply at Sherlock, but somehow managed to catch Moriarty's eye a second later - who, with the tiniest of smirks, raised his tea in a mock toast before putting it to his lips again.

That did it. Squaring his shoulders, John moved past Sherlock and into the sitting room, pulling off his jacket as he did so and folding it over the back of a chair. All the while he was keenly aware of his own sense of vulnerability in Moriarty's presence, but if Sherlock was going to play the casual game, he wasn't going to be the one to ruin things.

"It's usually more polite to wait for an invitation," he pointed out quietly, turning back to the two.

Moriarty shrugged carelessly again. "I would've been waiting a long time. This was easier."

Sherlock breathed a little easier when he saw that John seemed to have reasonable control over himself. He gave the tiniest of nods to his flatmate in acknowledgement before closing the door behind him with a sharp snap.

"You never came across as the impatient type, Moriarty." Sherlock casually moved past John, over to the window, then pivoted. He raised his eyes, glancing between the two men. "What's changed?"

"Everything." Moriarty frowned, glancing up toward the ceiling as though searching for inspiration. "But then... nothing, really. It's all rather a paradox, isn't it? Everything's changed, but the problem, the _game_, goes on just as it always has and always will." He broke off with an apologetic look. "But I won't bore you with that conversation again."

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and gave the other a thin smile. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate that," he said, in tones of sarcastic sincerity. He was started to feel just a nudge of impatience now - Moriarty was clearly here for a reason, but unfortunately, he did not seem in any rush to divulge his motives. Sherlock was fairly sure that at least part of the other's strategy was to see how irked his involuntary host would become before demanding an explanation.

Moriarty returned the smile, then abruptly turned to John as though in sudden surprise. "You're looking much better," he remarked, and the casual air with which he tossed it out sent a bit of a shiver down John's spine.

"Yeah, well, they have hospitals for that these days," he answered, the words short with annoyance. He wasn't about to give Moriarty the satisfaction of enquiring how he knew what had happened. Like Mycroft, the consulting criminal apparently had an eye and an ear everywhere.

Something about that seemed to amuse the other man. "Among other things," Moriarty agreed slowly, his eyes moving back to Sherlock, and for a moment it was as though something passed between them - a vague notion of familiarity, like a private joke.

John pressed his lips together, trying to seem unconcerned, but it was difficult. He knew exactly what that subtle allusion had been referring to, and he didn't want to think about it. Not when he had suffered six months of thinking about it almost nonstop. Not just when he had begun to hope things were going to get back to normal again (or as normal as things ever could be with Sherlock).

He caught Sherlock's glance out of the corner of his eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, a look that meant - _Don't worry about it. I'm fine._

Sherlock blinked slowly to show that he had understood John's position. He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, and looked over again at Moriarty lounging in the door between the living room and kitchen.

"I hope you won't keep me in suspense for too much longer, Moriarty," he said pointedly. "I did have plans for the afternoon."

"Oh, did you?" Moriarty looked almost surprised as one of his thin eyebrows went up again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interfere..." His tone said otherwise, however, and there was a smile hovering about his lips as he glanced down at his tea. "I only wanted to stop by and see how things are getting on, you see."

"Hmm, yes..." Sherlock held his steepled fingers to his lips and continued to eye the other shrewdly. "And what particular things are you referring to, then?"

"I thought _that _would be obvious, at least." Straightening, Moriarty jerked his chin pointedly at John, who stiffened ever so slightly. Hadn't Sherlock said it was Moriarty who had texted him, actually warned him about the abduction? But it didn't make sense...

"Your concern is touching," he said aloud, keeping his tone as bland as possible.

"Ahh." Sherlock's expression showed that he had indeed already deduced that particular aspect of Moriarty's visit."You wanted to see how your _investment _is doing. I see."

John frowned deeply at that, but Moriarty looked rather pleased. "You're quick today, Sherlock," he murmured approvingly. "That's an interesting way of putting it, though - considering he _is _in the room with us. Bit rude of you."

Sherlock quirked another tight smile over the tips of his fingers. "Just speaking your language, Moriarty," he said, very lightly. He directed the tiniest of glances in John's direction, noticing the other's frown.

"I know, you're learning."

Moriarty tilted his head, regarding Sherlock with an appraising sort of expression before speaking again, and this time his tone was more business-like. "In that case, I expect you've already figured out what I'm going to say."

Sherlock's smile disappeared then. "I have my suspicions," he admitted, his tone rather sharp.

John had his suspicions, as well, but he was pretty sure they weren't nearly as developed as Sherlock's were. His were more like instincts - vague, nagging notions of something not quite right, something to do with _him_, but he wasn't quite able to articulate them in thoughts or words. He let out his breath in a barely audible sigh, looking between Sherlock and Moriarty with a strange feeling that he was missing half of what was really going on.

Moriarty straightened fully, flicking his eyes up again from his tea. "Good," he said quietly, "then I won't have to tell you. Much more fun that way, assuming you're not wrong. I hope you're not."

"And why is that?" The pleasant tones were beginning to fall away from Sherlock's voice, and not by accident. "Are you afraid I've missed something that would detract from your little schemes?"

"No, no..." Moriarty shook his head, smiling to himself. "I've just seen the damage that wrong conclusions can do, especially in your case, Sherlock." He suddenly caught Sherlock's gaze, holding it. "It must be _so _relieving for you, this near escape."

Sherlock lifted his head slightly, going rather still. "Oh yes," he agreed softly, looking into the other man's cold eyes. He was rapidly tiring of the conversation. "But frankly, I'm not really in the mood to exchange riddles with you for much longer, Moriarty."

Moriarty's face took on an expression of careful consideration. "If I recall, you've said that once before, Sherlock... and do you remember my answer?" But he shook his head a moment later. "Not to worry, I think we understand each other. I just wanted to make sure, before..."

But he left it hanging, and with a shrug, he turned and took a few steps into the kitchen, where he placed the cup of tea (or what was left of it) on the table. When he turned back, he was straightening his jacket as though in preparation to leave. John watched him silently, hardly realising that he was holding his breath again.

Sherlock continued to watch every move that Moriarty made with a calculating look in his eyes. "I do hope you're not thinking you've obtained some sort of advantage because of this," he said after a moment, moving forward a few steps into the center of the room, slightly closer to John. He hadn't liked the way Moriarty had trailed off after "before".

Moriarty gave a absent shrug. "That all depends on you, Sherlock. It's just part of the game. If I gain an advantage, well" - he smiled again - "it will only be because you've given it to me."

"I'll be sure not to make that mistake, then," replied Sherlock, softly. "An advantage on one side makes things _so _much less entertaining."

"So it does," Moriarty agreed in a whisper, sounding amused. He shot a pointed glance toward the door. "I am allowed to leave, aren't I?"

John continued to stand very still, watching the strange verbal play between them and wondering if he would ever understand it all. Probably not, he thought, and the emotion that came with that thought was a strange coupling of annoyance and fear. He followed Moriarty's glance toward the door, inwardly nodding, willing the man to get the hell out before the tension blew up in their faces.

"By all means," answered Sherlock, forcing a bit of courtesy into his voice and gesturing at the doorway. He smiled thinly again. "Nice of you to stop by so we could clear that up." He could almost feel the stiffness radiating from John, and wondered if his flatmate was on the verge of doing something stupid, should Moriarty choose to drag out the farewells.

Moriarty smiled again. "Oh, I always have time for you, Sherlock." Then he looked at John. "And do try to keep yourself out of trouble, John; Sherlock goes all to pieces when he thinks you're in danger."

John drew in his breath sharply, and suddenly knew that if Moriarty didn't leave within the next five seconds, something was going to snap. "Get out," he shot back in a low, dangerous voice.

With a look of pretend shock, Moriarty raised his hands above his shoulders and began backing away until he was just outside the door. "OK, I'm going, I'm going," he answered softly, but John could sense rather than see that he was still laughing inwardly.

Sherlock's eyes did not leave Moriarty's face as the other carefully retreated outside, not even when John spoke and thus confirmed his suspicions of his flatmate's breaking point. He was waiting to see if Moriarty had one last die to cast.

It seemed that Moriarty was not about to oblige either of them with a final comment; however, he had taken only one step down from the landing before he half-turned his head and looked again at Sherlock. The expression in his eyes was hard to read, but one thing even John couldn't miss - it was a warning. The corner of Moriarty's lips twitched, but still he said nothing, and a second later his footsteps were echoing quickly down the stairs.

John let out a somewhat explosive breath, reaching up and running a hand agitatedly over his hair. "What was all that about?" he demanded, giving Sherlock a very sharp look.

"All what?" said Sherlock cryptically. "You were right there the entire time, surely you didn't miss everything that was said..." He continued to study the now-empty doorway, as though Moriarty had left something behind.

John's features tightened. "You know what, Sherlock." He didn't mean to sound angry, but he was afraid it came out that way. His nerves were only just now beginning to recover. "Somehow, as usual, I missed a lot of the subtext."

"Did you?" murmured Sherlock distractedly. "Sorry to hear that." He wasn't about to make it easy for John to figure out the exact details of said subtext - he could already tell that it would only cause another row between them.

Sighing, John closed his eyes for a moment. "Don't do that, Sherlock," he said in a tired voice. "Really not in the mood to play guessing games."

"Then you'll just have to stay curious, unless you manage to figure it out yourself." Sherlock finally turned away from the door, and promptly moved back to the window and began pacing. The way his brow was furrowed did not bode well as an indication of his current thoughts.

"No, Sherlock -" John crossed the room in a few quick, agitated strides until he stood directly in front of his friend. "I'm serious. What's going on here?"

Sherlock halted mid-step, appearing rather taken aback by John's sudden materialisation in front of him. "That isn't a very specific question," he said slowly, after a long pause.

"_Why _did he come here?" John demanded, raising his voice without really meaning to. "What was the point? And don't pretend you don't know, because I can tell you do." He had had a few moments to think about it, though, and there were a few nasty suspicions growing in his mind - putting the pieces together, as it were. Moriarty's first appearance, the abduction, the warning text to Sherlock, and now their second visit from the consulting criminal...

"Of course I know," Sherlock shot back, his tone very tense. He exhaled slowly, not meeting John's eyes this time. It seemed that, in their months apart, he had forgotten how very adept his flatmate had become at blundering him into a corner. After a long pause, he continued, "He wanted to make sure that I understood our relative positions now, after what happened with you..." There was a faint note of disgust in his voice.

John stared for a long moment. "You mean - because he texted you about where I was - he thinks you're... in his debt, or something?" He was thinking aloud, and the words came out hesitantly, for they were not exactly cheering.

Sherlock closed his eyes in response, his folded hands pressed hard against his lips. "That's his view of the situation, yes."

Anxiously, John walked toward the kitchen, stopped, turned, and walked back again. He couldn't seem to latch onto any one particular thought, which was highly frustrating given the circumstances. "Why did he do it?" he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for Sherlock to hear. "Why would he even take the time to - to _warn _you? Just for this? Just so he can - what? Call in a debt later?"

"That's only a part of the larger picture," replied Sherlock, opening his eyes again and letting his gaze follow John's pacing. "A debt, yes... but also another move in the game. Another step in the dance..." He shook his head slightly, his words far calmer than his thoughts. "It's what he enjoys."

John's frown deepened with something close to concern at Sherlock's choice of words, but he decided not to mention it. There was already enough tension in the air, and it took a tremendous effort to force out the next question.

"So what do we do?"

Sherlock did not answer immediately. From what information he had managed to glean, both from Mycroft and from Moriarty himself, he had come to the tentative conclusion that the consulting criminal had not played a direct role in John's abduction. Doing so, and risking that Sherlock might figure it out, would have been a bit too dangerous, he thought, even for Moriarty; and if this debt was his goal all along, it would have been leaving a great deal to chance. John could have easily been killed. No, he suspected that Moriarty had only been a bystander, as his texts had implied, taking a known situation and twisting it slightly for sheer amusement.

He looked round the flat seemingly at random, or as though taking in the details of a place which he might never see again. The frustration on his face seemed to have fallen away, to be replaced by a flat, almost blank expression. With a few easy movements, he picked up his violin and bow from nearby and then sank into an armchair. He glanced up again at John, then shrugged.

"We wait," he said simply.

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Don't you just hate these suspenseful endings? Here, have some tea while you wait. =P May the Force be with you.


	15. Chapter 14: Darker Than Reality

_I admit, I'm waiting for some cries of despair when people read this one and realise that it's another introspective conversation and not the beginnings of some fun times from Moriarty. But there is hope - the fun times start next chapter. Call this the calm before the storm. And besides, every good story needs a slight detour or two. So bear with us, and please continue to leave your thoughts!_

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**Chapter Fourteen: Darker Than Reality**

_You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it._

Whether it was Moriarty's reappearance or any number of other factors that had been building up over the past few weeks, that night was one of the bad ones. John had been through a lot of them since Sherlock's supposed death, but their frequency had slowly diminished as he became distanced (at least in time) from the event. In fact, it had been several weeks since the last time he had woken up, startled and sweat-covered, still breathing out the name of his friend.

He was reliving it again, in a strange sort of time-defying space where some moments played before his mind almost in slow motion, while others were just flashes of images that burned beneath his closed eyes before flickering to darkness again. The dream was as vivid as those he used to have about his time in Afghanistan; he could see the hospital, feel the sting of the coming rain, taste the sudden, welling feeling of horror as he watched the scene he couldn't tear his eyes from even if he wanted to.

His body treated these dreams differently, though; instead of gasping and flailing, he was held paralysed, his breath coming in long, shallow spurts, his hands and jaw clenched tightly. It was the helplessness that was so frightening - the knowledge that he was too far and too ignorant to do anything that might make the slightest difference.

He hadn't told Sherlock about the nightmares. He wasn't sure what sort of reaction he would get, but probably something careless or sceptical, and that was the last thing he needed.

Unsurprisingly, John wasn't the only one having difficulties with the concept of sleep, though at least he was trying. Sherlock, on the other hand, had given up entirely on the notion - or, rather, he had recognised the futility of the attempt and hadn't even bothered to try. It wasn't as though he wanted to sleep, either. Whatever he might tell John about waiting to see what happened, Sherlock couldn't escape the nagging feeling that he was still missing something important in regards to Moriarty's potential schemes.

And then, of course... there was John. Sherlock frowned against his fingers as he paced the darkened living room. He still wasn't certain how much his flatmate really understood. Was the other playing dumb, or was he truly that ignorant? Or as a third possibility, was he pretending to understand more than he actually did? It was difficult to tell - John was a surprisingly complex man once you got to know him.

Sherlock paused, glancing towards the doorway that led upstairs to his friend's bedroom, wondering if the other was as restless as he was. Maybe if John was still awake, they could try to figure this thing out. As much as Sherlock found such conversations rather wearing, he couldn't deny that John was a good surface off of which to bounce ideas. With that thought in mind, the restless consulting detective quietly headed up the stairs. He paused at the door, then gently pushed it open and poked his head inside.

"John?" he called softly.

For a few long seconds, there was no sound from within aside from John's deep breathing as he slept. Under the blankets, however, his form seemed oddly stiff and tense. His right hand twitched suddenly, grasping for something in the darkness that wasn't there, and from his lips a low, indistinguishable murmur issued into the barely-lit room.

"Didn't catch that..."

Sherlock slipped into the room and moved to the foot of the bed, and his brow furrowed slightly. Even in the semi-darkness he could see from the odd way in which John was lying that something was not quite right. He wondered if the other had been talking in his sleep.

John didn't reply; instead, he drew in his breath in a sharp, sudden gasp that left his chest rising and falling rapidly under the sheets. His hand clutched at the air just above his pillow but again fell back with nothing to show for it.

"No, _no_..." The words were low with fear as John twisted his head to one side.

Sherlock sidestepped swiftly around the bed until he was standing near John's pillow. He hesitated for a moment, then reached down and shook the other's shoulder gently. "John," he whispered, his voice not yet worried, only somewhat exasperated, "wake up."

"When?" John's whisper was clearly a response to something else, something that only he could hear. He stiffened again, resisting Sherlock's attempt to shake him awake, for he was seeing his friend in another place - a place too far for him to reach. He made a soft, choking sound, as though trying to hold something back and only partially succeeding.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to himself and let out a short, loud breath. "Now would be a good time," he replied, shaking John a bit more forcefully this time.

"No - don't -" His jaw clenched tightly, John shied away again, despite the fact that there was nowhere for him to go. He drew in another harsh, shallow breath as his neck strained back, forcing his head further into the pillow.

Sherlock reached around awkwardly so that one hand was on either of his flatmate's rigid shoulders. "John," he said, very distinctly, "you're dreaming." He wasn't sure anything he said would make a difference, but it made _him_ feel better, at least, to try and bring some logic back into the situation. "Now _wake up._"

Abruptly, John went very still, except for the erratic rise and fall of his chest, which seemed all the more obvious in comparison. If he heard Sherlock, he gave no sign of it, but another unintelligible sound escaped his throat, and then another hoarse gasp that cut like a knife through the air -

"_Sherlock -_"

John sat bolt upright without warning, the sudden momentum forcing Sherlock's hands back with unexpected strength. Sweat glimmered darkly against his neck and forehead, and the expression on his face was one of mingled horror and disbelief. He did not notice his friend nearby, flooded as his mind was with those images, those last, gut-wrenching frames he just couldn't seem to stop seeing.

Sherlock had jumped back as John abruptly came awake, dropping his hands by his sides again. He didn't speak, but only stood there and studied his friend carefully, taking in the other's sweat-streaked face and trembling limbs. It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened; nor could Sherlock manage to fully push away the unwelcome shiver of familiarity that went through him at the sight of John's distress.

John was keenly aware that he was close to hyperventilating, but he couldn't seem to control it; he closed his eyes, clenching his hands against the sheets, willing himself to be calm. He should have been used this after so many times, so many months, but then, how did anyone ever become accustomed to waking up with that desperate shout ringing in their ears, from their own mouth?

He exhaled in a long, shaking breath, then lowered his head into his hands. Knowing that Sherlock was no longer dead apparently didn't make the dreams any less real, when he was in the midst of them.

Still watching, Sherlock tilted his head and spoke. "Are you alright?"

John started visibly, though the tremor was only a larger version of those already running throughout his body. He raised his head and twisted it around quickly only to find Sherlock standing there, looking impassive as always.

"What?" John said, his voice barely above a whisper. His friend's sudden appearance had sent him into a state of slightly panicked confusion - how long had Sherlock been standing there?

"Are you alright?" Sherlock repeated the question with slightly more force behind his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back and continued to look down at his flatmate scrutinisingly.

Still breathing quickly, and beginning to feel thoroughly humiliated under Sherlock's stare, John turned his head away and stared determinedly down at his hands resting in front of him. "Don't ask questions you can _observe _the answers to," he responded quietly. "It's not difficult."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment before replying. "I thought you preferred that I restrain my instincts in situations like this," he said mildly, noting John's expression with more than a passing interest.

"Good of you," John answered shortly. He was still avoiding Sherlock's gaze; that one look had been enough to convince him he wasn't dreaming anymore, and that was really all he wanted - to convince himself one more time that the other man was indeed alive.

"So what was it, then?" Sherlock seemed determined to delve straight to the heart of the matter.

There it was, the very question John didn't want to answer. He shook his head once, letting out his breath slowly. "Not important." What a fat lie that was.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. "You wouldn't have reacted so violently if it was something trivial," he pointed out. "You're far too disciplined for that."

"I don't give a damn -"

John broke off, belatedly realising his voice was raised. He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, saw his expression, and immediately continued where he had left off. " - how you think I'm supposed to be reacting to -" But he stopped again. He wasn't going to say it.

"To...?" continued Sherlock, quite expectantly. "If you really want me to figure it out on my own, I can, you know, but it would be much easier if you just told me."

"Figure it out yourself, then," John retorted stubbornly, feeling both dismayed and annoyed, and more than a little embarrassed, for this was different than talking about his time in the Middle East. That had been remote, distant from Baker Street and indeed from Sherlock - an experience, in other words, that only John knew. But this, this wasn't like that at all...

But Sherlock only stared at him strangely for several long moments, wondering silently if his brief initial instinct had been correct. His mind rewound to the few moments of John's sleep that he had witnessed. _No, no... Sherlock..._John's strange paralysis, and his hand reaching out for something that wasn't there...

Sherlock snapped back to the present and looked down at his friend, certain he now knew what the other had been witnessing in the shadows of his dreams. "I don't need to," he said finally, his voice soft. He paused, then went on, "It was about me, wasn't it?"

This time, John met Sherlock's eyes, and he could tell immediately that his friend understood - at least as much as was possible to understand. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, it - was," he said very quietly, nodding and trying to say it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but the topic didn't really lend itself to a casual tone. He turned his head away again.

Sherlock found that he didn't really know how to respond to that, in the end. What did you say, when you realised that your best friend was having nightmares about your death, when you were standing right there, watching him?

He nodded slowly, acknowledging what they both understood now without either of them saying it outright. Part of him wondered suddenly why he hadn't thought of it as soon as he had walked in the room. And then he realised that it was because he had been purposefully avoiding any thought of it himself. He didn't want to dwell on the replays brought by troubled sleep any more than John did.

For a few very long moments, John merely continued to stare at the bed, for lack of anything better, and the only sound in the room was his own breathing as it slowly returned to its normal rate. Soon, though, the silence became more oppressive than anything he could have said, because he could still _feel_Sherlock watching him, waiting for something more.

"It... hasn't happened in a long time." He was surprised at how matter-of-fact the words sounded when he finally got them out. "Weeks."

"You hadn't mentioned that it had happened at all." Sherlock's tone was in no way accusing, merely putting forth a statement of fact.

"And yet you don't sound the least bit surprised," John muttered, reaching up to run a hand hard over his forehead. "You're not, are you?" He glanced over again, trying to judge Sherlock's expression, but it was almost impossible in the dim light.

"No," was the quiet response. "Not really. _Captain _John Watson doesn't appear nearly as often as you might want other people to believe."

John felt a sudden pang of annoyance. "Do you _have _to do that?" he demanded sharply, lowering his hand.

"No," said Sherlock again. "What would you have me do instead?" Because frankly, he didn't really know how to handle this situation. Comforting others was definitely not his forte.

"Don't -" John broke off, gesturing sharply, and took advantage of the pause to draw in a deep breath. "Just don't do that - that psychoanalysis thing - not now, OK?" He forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes for a second time. "It won't work."

"Won't it?" Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow. "That sounds like some sort of challenge, John, if I may say so. Though I'm guessing that wasn't your intent."

John exhaled suddenly. "No - you know why it won't work, Sherlock?" He turned fully around to glare at his friend, feeling as though his insides were twisting themselves into painful, breathless knots. "Because there's nothing to analyse - it's _fear_, Sherlock - plain, boring fear - and whether or not you know what that feels like, I do." He was breathing hard by the time he finished, as though he were still asleep and revisiting that moment.

Sherlock stood there for a few moments, watching his friend in silence. It suddenly struck him that, despite all their talking - and quite invariably, arguing - there was still a very distinct wall between them when it came to their six months spent on separate paths. What John didn't know was that in regards to nightmares, things weren't exactly exclusive to him.

The detective let out a slow breath. "I know what it feels like," he said quietly. His eyes flickered away towards the window.

"Yeah?" John's tone was decidedly skeptical.

Sherlock glanced at John again, his brows drawn together."You think I've never been afraid?" he asked softly. He couldn't bring himself to be more specific, to admit that he knew almost exactly what John was feeling right now. All things considered, he much preferred to keep the knowledge of personal experience to himself.

Hearing the gentle rebuke, John sighed and dropped his gaze. "No, I know you've been afraid. I've seen it, obviously. But it's never been - like this. You're not afraid of just... nothing."

"Neither are you," Sherlock told him simply. "If it were nothing, you wouldn't be afraid."

John dropped his head into his hands and retreated behind one of his mental walls. "Don't want to talk about it," he said, his voice muffled behind his fingers.

Sherlock hesitated, watching him, then spoke cautiously. "Alright, you're afraid when you have these... dreams. That's understandable. The question is... are you _still _afraid, now, when you're awake?"

"I don't... wha..." Confused, John looked up. He shook his head numbly, staring at his friend and trying to understand. What kind of person asked that? Well, it was Sherlock, but still it sounded odd. He hesitated for a long time, thinking about it, and it occurred to him that now he was being asked to psychoanalyse himself instead of Sherlock doing it.

"I... yes, sort of," he said, with visible reluctance. "It doesn't just go away, you know. Things like this, they - they _don't _go away." Not ever, probably.

But Sherlock shook his head quickly. He had expected John's reply, but it didn't actually answer the question he had asked. Not in the way that he had meant it, anyway.

"No," he murmured, frowning. He ran a hand through his hair, appearing to become rather agitated suddenly. "I'm not asking if you're afraid of... what happened. I'm asking if you're afraid of... _what's happening_. Or what _might _happen." He couldn't think of any way to state his query more clearly, but then, the idea was still only half-formed in his own mind.

"Moriarty," John murmured, barely aware that he was saying it until after he had done so. He ran a hand over his hair. "He's not going to stop, you know. He's going to keep doing whatever it is he does best, and you - I'm afraid you will, too." The last words were very quiet.

"John..."

Sherlock tilted his head, staring at his flatmate, and then let out a long sigh. "You understand, don't you, that I haven't got much choice here? As you say, he isn't going to just walk away, and I can't - I _can't _- just bury my head in a blanket and ignore what he's doing. The danger would only increase, don't you see?"

Abruptly, the detective turned away, his head lowered over his steepled fingers again. No matter his reasoning or arguments, he wasn't sure that John could accept the only possible decision here. The other man was just too afraid that everything would come full circle again, only this time without the faked aspect.

John raised his head, giving Sherlock a long, searching look even though his friend was not facing him anymore. He did understand. He knew the situation, and he hated it - hated that James Moriarty found it so simple to manipulate them this way. The only person who could make Sherlock dance to that deadly music.

"I know," he murmured, very quietly, his voice becoming weary and resigned. "I know... that you have to do this. But I'm still worried about what could happen." He took a deep breath, then nodded, more to himself than Sherlock. "What are you going to do, then?"

Sherlock's rather acidic answer was a long time in coming. "I don't know," he found himself admitting, very much against both will and instinct. "I wasn't expecting to... have to deal with this again, and I don't think I'm going to get much time to stop and think about it."

"So we have to wait - for him to make the next move." John's tone was grim, and more than a little bitter. It wasn't the waiting that bothered him, or the anticipation of the unexpected; it was the fact that there was nothing they could do to make their position against Moriarty any more favourable.

Sherlock nodded curtly. "It's the only option available right now. Moriarty has too many resources, too many connections. Actively trying to figure out what he's doing is more likely to encourage him to leave a false trail than lead to any sort of useful information."

"Great." John ran a hand over his hair, shaking his head. "Bloody fantastic."

He fell silent again for a long minute, wondering what else there was to say. Nothing, really, but he wasn't sure how to tactfully tell Sherlock he didn't really feel like talking about this anymore. But then, tact never worked with Sherlock in the first place.

"Erm..." He glanced up at his friend. "I think I'll try to get some sleep, if that's all the same to you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you try already?" But then he shrugged, turning away towards the door. John clearly wasn't going to be much help in figuring out how to best deal with the situation, not with the state he was currently in. Abruptly, he moved around the bed again and strode towards the door.

"Sherlock..." John's voice was quiet as he suddenly looked up again, just when the other man had reached the door. He felt as though he needed to say something, but for some reason he couldn't think of what that might be.

Sherlock pivoted sharply to look back at John. "Yes?" His features were unreadable in the half-shadows that draped the room.

John swallowed. "I..." The fleeting thought was gone now, though. He shook his head. "Never mind. It's - it's fine. Goodnight."

Sherlock seemed to study his friend for a moment. He wondered briefly what it was that the other had decided to refrain from saying. But he only nodded again.

"Sleep well, John." With a soft swish of his dressing gown, he rounded the doorframe and was gone.

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Hope you're all breathless with anticipation for the next chapter! Remember, reviews are remarkably helpful to both Kaelir and myself. May the Force be with you.


	16. Chapter 15: Right Move, Right Piece

_Well well well. Looks like things are starting to happen. There's always some element of suspense, of course..._

_We are _so_ abusing poor John in this fic. Oh well. I'm sure that Sherlock's turn will come along in due course..._

_Once again, thank you and thank you for sticking with us and continuing to leave your thoughts!_

_(Also, apologies for the abbreviated chapter title in the menu. It was too long. xD )_

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**Chapter Fifteen: The Right Move, With The Right Piece**

_This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming._

As first days, then weeks, passed without any further communication from Jim Moriarty, John began to get edgy - or, more accurately, he started to relax, and the very fact that he was letting his guard down slightly made him all the more apprehensive. It was a vicious back-and-forth cycle among his nerves, and he really didn't like it. Every day he expected _something _happen, and when it didn't, he couldn't decide whether to breathe a sigh of relief or be all the more prepared for the next day.

If Sherlock was feeling the same sort of pressure, John hadn't noticed much. He kept a wary eye on his friend whenever possible, for some part of him was afraid that Sherlock would fail to take his own advice and go out actively looking for Moriarty. That was the last thing they needed.

Without bothering to ask Sherlock's permission (mostly because he knew what the answer would have been), John had also been careful to keep Mycroft updated on what they were up to - which, to be fair, wasn't much. He hadn't quite forgiven the elder Holmes for what had happened at the abandoned warehouse, but unlike Sherlock, John was not prone to holding grudges without a very good reason. After all, there was a slim chance that Mycroft's people would be able to catch any random tidbits of information floating around with regard to Moriarty, and anything at all they could pick up would be more than welcome.

It was late in the afternoon one day, nearly dark, when John's phone rang out insistently from his jacket pocket. He frowned and let out an aggravated sigh, pushing his chair back away from the desk where he had been typing up a (semi-unproductive) blog entry, mostly about how much noise Sherlock had been making over the past few days. Not that he could consider posting it, given that Sherlock was still trying not to make a spectacle of himself, but it gave him something to do. John stood and pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Hello?"

_"Oh, John... good, I was hoping you'd pick up. We need to have a little chat, you see."_

John froze, his heart suddenly beating rapidly against his chest. It was the feeling of being suddenly doused in ice water from behind, only much, much worse. Because he knew that voice - oh, he knew it so well - knew it, and hated it. Almost without realising, he shot a sharp, anxious glance toward the kitchen, where Sherlock was doing - well, God only knew what Sherlock was doing in there.

Sherlock was, in fact, engaged in a rather mild activity, that being trying to peel one of the satsumas John had finally managed to remember to buy. In an attempt to make it slightly interesting, he was trying to extricate the fruit while making the smallest hole possible in its outer layer. So far, he hadn't had much success. But then, he had to admit, he wasn't very hungry, either.

Easily distracted, it only took John's voice from the other room to make Sherlock glance up from his work. He paused, then threw the satsuma back down onto the kitchen table before standing up and moving to the door.

"John?" He wiped his hands absently on his dressing gown as he looked over to where his flatmate was standing by the desk, phone held to his ear. "Who's that?"

John looked around again, starting slightly. Hadn't Sherlock been preoccupied only a moment before? Perfect timing, as usual. A dozen things he would very much like to say into the phone raced through his mind, but then -

_"No telling, now. That would be spoiling things. And trust me when I say you _really_ don't want to. Not without hearing me out first, anyway."_

Moriarty's voice sounded amused, but underneath there was a thin, threatening tone that sent a little chill down John's spine. Swearing inwardly, he swallowed hard and shook his head, mouthing _not now _rather more vehemently than he had intended.

Frowning, Sherlock took a few steps further into the living room. "What d'you mean, not now?" he demanded. "All I asked was who's calling you."

Struggling to remain firmly under control, John flapped an agitated hand in Sherlock's face, which he hoped would say _go away _more clearly than words - though, with Sherlock, it was always a long shot. He tried desperately to think of something to cover up his initial reaction, or at least explain it, but then Moriarty started talking again, in a quiet, casual sort of voice that was horribly out of place with the words he was speaking.

John abruptly turned away from Sherlock and walked over to the window, closing his eyes for a brief moment as the real implications began sinking in. Not just words. Instructions... John felt his breath catch in his throat and he bit his lip hard, willing himself to breathe normally, to keep up that terrible semblance of normality. He found himself staring out the window, eyes darting, looking for anything out of place across the street, but of course he could see nothing. Moriarty wasn't that careless.

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, unsure about whether he should be feeling annoyed or concerned. Obviously John was upset about something, but then, John did tend to take little things rather seriously. Probably his latest attempts at finding a girlfriend had backfired, or maybe his sister had ended up being hospitalised due to extreme inebriation. Sherlock watched him for a moment, speculating, then shrugged, giving his flatmate a look that clearly said, "Fine. Don't tell me. I doubt it's important anyway, I was just curious..."

"I - yes." It took all John's willpower to force the word out, and he hated himself for it, but he had no choice, and Moriarty knew it.

"_Good; knew I could count on you to play along. No telling, now. You know what happens if you do." _An emphatic pause. _"I'll be in touch."_

The line went dead. For a long moment John merely stood there, still holding the phone to his ear and with a frantic, hollow beating in his chest,, wondering how in all hell he was going to be able to throw Sherlock off-track this time - and he had to. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on the back of his head, still watching, and he let out his breath in a low, slightly shaking sigh.

"Well?" Sherlock had to admit that his curiosity was getting the better of him - his resolve in letting the matter slide had lasted a whole three seconds. "Who was it?"

Slowly, John turned around, and then forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes, for he knew that if he didn't his lying would be immediately apparent. "It was - Harry." He nodded quickly, going with the first thing that came into his head. He slipped his phone back inside his jacket. "My sister - she, erm..." God, how was he going to make this sound convincing? "Just a personal problem, no idea what she wants me to do about it..." He shrugged, as though it really had been just a casual, matter-of-fact phone call.

"Oh. I see." Sherlock toyed with the idea of pressing the issue further, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. John never seemed to appreciate the remarks his friend made when it came to his sister. Sherlock privately felt that she was a lost cause, but then, people did tend to take idiotic stances when it came to family. Thank God he and Mycroft knew better.

John nodded, barely hearing him. He took a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, then gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "Yeah. Right, so - what are you - what are you doing in there, exactly?" Anything to stop Sherlock from speculating further.

Sherlock cast a mildly disgusted look back at the kitchen table. "Nothing I really feel like going back to," he admitted. He shrugged then, and proving how bored he really was, continued, "And how is your... blog... coming?"

"Erm - fine." John gave him a knowing look. "You're not really interested, though."

Sherlock eyed his flatmate for a moment before replying. "No... not really." He drew in a slow breath and ambled over to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.

John shot him a slightly annoyed look. "So why do you even bother asking?" he said, a bit sharply. He didn't mean to snap, but then, he thought darkly, he had every reason to. _Damn him. Damn Moriarty and his games._

Sherlock turned his head to direct a glance of mild reproval back at his friend. "I thought you might appreciate even a pretense of interest in something you apparently enjoy doing. I won't bother in the future, then..."

"Sorry," John muttered, feeling more than a twinge of guilt, and not just for speaking sharply. "You don't... oh, hell, I don't know." Briefly, he considered dropping into one of the chairs by the hearth, but he was too agitated to sit down now.

Sherlock eyed him for a long moment again, frowning. "It's really bothering you, then, this - personal problem that your sister's having?"

John glanced up again, swallowing before he replied, "No - well, yes, sort of. Don't worry about it."

"I hadn't planned on doing so. It's not my problem, after all." Sherlock shrugged again, realising that anything he said wasn't going to make John stop and consider that maybe it wasn't _his_problem either.

Abruptly, John turned and walked into the kitchen, with his mind still screaming dire warnings that he really didn't need. Not Sherlock's problem... if only that were true. He found himself staring at the discarded satsuma without really seeing it, just a bright orange spot in the corner of his vision. His blog was still open on the desk in the living room, but he knew now he wasn't going to be finishing it today - and probably not tomorrow, either. Apparently, he thought, with no little measure of disgust, apparently he had other things to do.

* * *

It was early evening a few days later. Sherlock had decided that the darkening air beyond the windows was sufficiently cool to merit stoking up a small flame in the fireplace. Whether or not he had an accurate grasp of the temperature was rather beside the point, since he would have gone ahead and made the fire anyway; this was just his way of legitimising it to John. The fact was, Sherlock rather liked the atmosphere that flickering embers created in the little flat.

Having managed to stir up a decent-sized fire, he sat back on his heels for a moment to admire his work with a sort of strange satisfaction. He tossed the starting match into the hearth and slowly rose to his feet again, glancing over to where John seated on the sofa.

"Do you mind?" he asked, with surprising cordiality, indicating his violin lying nearby. He wasn't sure why he was in such an amiable mood. Maybe he was a pyromaniac, and being around fire made him happy. He doubted it, though.

John started slightly, glancing up. "Hm?" It took a moment for him to register what Sherlock's hand was gesturing at. He he noticed that Sherlock's silhouette against the light spilling from the fireplace was oddly dark - or maybe, he thought sourly, that was just his own thoughts. He nodded, the movement of his head accompanied by a slight shrug.

"If you like," he answered absently. "You'd probably start up anyway, right?"

"Not if you really don't want me to, no." Sherlock bent slightly to pick up the violin. "But since you appear to have no real objection..." He gave his flatmate the faintest of smiles as he tucked the instrument beneath his chin, then turned away towards the window, his other hand automatically following to touch bow to string. The soft, plaintive notes began wafting easily through the flat.

John hadn't expected the music to do anything for his mood, but he was wrong; as he leaned back against the couch, arms folded under his head, he began to feel quite relaxed. It was probably the first time in days he had not been completely on edge. He wasn't sure if Sherlock had noticed or not - he likely had - but nothing had been said, for which he was profoundly grateful. Nothing yet, anyway.

"That's nice," he remarked after a moment, giving his friend a somewhat lazy glance. "One of yours?"

Without breaking the flow of sound, Sherlock slowly turned to look at John before replying. "Just something I composed a few months ago," he murmured, as though it wasn't of any real importance.

"I like it," John said, smiling slightly as he continued to watch Sherlock. "Mrs Hudson would, too - you should play it for her sometime. Though probably not at this hour," he added, for he had glanced at his watch and realised with a start that it was already nearing midnight.

Sherlock let out a soft snort. "Mrs Hudson would say she liked anything I played, John." It was probably true - he wasn't convinced she could tell the difference between good music or bad.

John laughed a little. "Is that commentary on her taste or your playing?" he asked, settling further back against the couch with a contented sigh. "Might find out if you end up waking her with that." He nodded toward the instrument.

"Her _lack_of taste, obviously." Sherlock turned his eyes upward for a moment, then continued, "I doubt she cares, really. She's used to noises in here at all hours, remember?" He turned away again, gazing into the fire while his hands seemed to go on playing independently of his conscious will.

"So you're saying she doesn't have good taste, but she likes your playing so - "

But he broke off suddenly as his phone made its usual text-chirping noise from his pocket. A text - who would be texting him at this hour? John felt his mouth go dry as he considered the possibilities; he wished there were more. With a sidelong glance at Sherlock, he slowly pulled his phone from inside his jacket and thumbed open the message.

_Don't forget._  
_JM x._

Expecting it didn't make the text any more palatable. John closed his eyes and ran his free hand hard over his forehead, for a moment forgetting that Sherlock was there, too distracted to even notice the violin still playing in the background.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm saying," he explained, "that she doesn't _have_any sort of taste. Meaning that I could start playing anything at all and she would most likely still applaud and start showering me with compliments..."

He pivoted to face John again, then frowned, letting the bow in his hand slip down so that the music faded away to stillness. Why did his flatmate suddenly appear so distraught? "John?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Something wrong?"

"What? No..." John raised his head, and the look on his face was oddly pained. But he couldn't hold it in any longer; he could not do this to Sherlock. "Yes," he said slowly, in a voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, it's - _everything_..." He stared down at the phone still in his hand, which continued to glow at him in silent mockery.

Sherlock continued to stare at him, trying to push down a sudden surge of uneasiness. "What do you mean?" he asked, with a kind of forced calm. Lowering his violin, he placed the instrument onto a low footstool nearby and walked across the room to stand in front of his friend.

John swallowed. Without speaking, he flipped the phone around in his hand so that it faced Sherlock, sending eerie patterns illuminating the other man's face in its glow.

Sherlock reached out to steady the device, which was somewhat shaky due to the trembling of John's hand. He stared down at the screen, and his eyes widened visibly in the bright glow. Very slowly, he moved his gaze from the phone to its owner, dropping his own hand again.

"John." His voice was very quiet. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." John's words held a note of desperation - desperate because he wanted to explain everything, and he couldn't, and he was somehow hoping that Sherlock would figure it out. Lying wasn't always hard for him, but it certainly was when he had to deceive his best friend.

Sherlock forced himself to let out a long breath before replying. "What do you mean, you don't know? Why the hell would Moriarty be texting _you_?" There was an edge to his voice now, one he couldn't prevent from being heard. He could feel his uneasiness growing, and it was making for a dangerous drop in his naturally short supply of patience.

"I don't - _know_- Sherlock -"

John tossed his phone carelessly onto the table and dropped his head into his hands. He did know. He hated knowing. All the same, he couldn't help hearing a strange tone in what Sherlock said, as though his friend thought Moriarty should only be texting _him_. "Ask him."

Sherlock shot his flatmate a glare that he couldn't see. "Ask him?" he repeated, with cold sarcasm. "What sort of answer do you think I'll get?" He threw his gaze randomly around the room for a few seconds before looking back down at John. Snatching up the other's phone, he reread the short message. "'_Don't forget'_?" he said sharply. "Meaning what? John, _what is he talking about?_"

"_I don't know!_" John repeated, half-shouting now with frustration. He was already regretting showing Sherlock the text - at least part of him was. The other part he was fighting against, because it kept urging him to explain everything. "He's Moriarty - he likes messing with - people's heads -"

Sherlock suddenly went very still, as the implications of John's words began to filter through. He dropped the phone back onto the table and pressed his fingers together, his eyes still boring down into his friend's face.

"That phone call had nothing to do with your sister, did it?" he said softly. "That was Moriarty... that was why you started acting so strangely... and now this..." He let out another long breath, then continued, "So... whose head is he playing with this time? Yours... or mine?"

John let out a long, shaky breath that did nothing to soothe his agitation. "Both," he said, very quietly. He could feel Sherlock watching him but could not force himself to look up and see whatever expression was on his friend's face. "He's... oh, God." He shook his head again, passing a hand over his eyes.

"He's - what?" Sherlock clamped his hands over John's shoulders, his grip hard. "John, you need to tell me. Why did he call you? What did he _say?_" He didn't understand anything of what was going on here, and that fact was making him feel extremely on edge. When it came to Moriarty, not knowing was like walking unarmed into a gunfight with your eyes closed.

Instead of wrenching himself away, John sagged slightly in Sherlock's grip. "I..." He could barely get the words out. "I can't... tell you," he breathed, feeling both his voice and his body trembling. After a moment of hesitation, he glanced up, his expression pleading.

Sherlock released his grasp again, letting his hands drop to his sides. "Can't tell me?" he repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stared hard at John, and there was a strange look in his eyes, something like a flicker of fear. "Why?"

"Because I've been told not to." John practically spat the words out, his voice harsh, and underlaid with anxiety. His shoulders were throbbing slightly from the intensity of Sherlock's grip a few seconds before.

Sherlock slowly lifted his gaze to stare at the wall above John's head. He was beginning to get a glimmer, now, of what was going on, and he didn't at all care for the implications.

"He's using you." Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the words fall from his lips, mingled with his soft exhalation of understanding. "Did he say what would happen if you disobeyed?"

John nodded, unable to speak for a moment. "It's... Mrs Hudson," he forced out finally. "He's got someone - someone watching her..." He trailed off helplessly again.

Sherlock's face twisted slightly at his friend's words. Of course... how like Moriarty, to threaten two of those few people who were close to the consulting detective, all in one stroke...His brain was already trying to unravel the threads of this latest development, but with only limited success; after all, he didn't have much to work with.

"Wait a moment." Sherlock's voice had a kind of forced steadiness to it. "You can't tell me why he's contacting you, why he's using you, or for what... but you _can _tell me... that he's using you at all?"

"No..." John felt himself begin to shake more, and he clamped his hands viciously over the edge of the sofa, willing himself to stay in control. "I'm not supposed to say that, either but - as you may have noticed, I'm not very good at hiding things. _Damn _it..."

Swiftly, Sherlock placed his hands back on his flatmate's shoulders, but this time his touch was gentle. "John, just - try to calm down, alright? This isn't your fault." He drew in a long breath, grimacing. The words came out only with a huge effort. "Don't say anything more that - that you aren't supposed to say."

John felt a slight twinge of surprise as Sherlock's hands found his shoulders again, almost comfortingly. He hadn't expected that. He spoke again, quickly, because he knew that if he didn't get as much out as he dared in one go, it probably wouldn't happen at all.

"There's someplace you need to go - tomorrow, I think, if he's - _reminding _me now. I'm supposed to ask you to meet me there, or something like that, but now..." He closed his eyes again. "You'll just have to go."

Sherlock eyed his friend for a moment, then nodded curtly. Something close to anger was beginning to replace his initial shock. "Where is it?" he asked, rather brusquely.

John shook his head. "I don't know - really, this time," he added quickly, anticipating a look of scepticism from the other. "He - hasn't said. Yet."

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh. "We'll just have to wait until he contacts you again, I suppose," he muttered, steepling his fingers again beneath tight lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. "And I'll have to try to fool him into believing that I had no prior knowledge of what he had planned..." He trailed off, deliberately leaving the rest of the thought unvoiced - namely that bluffing Moriarty in and of itself was extremely difficult.

"Sherlock..." The apology was already showing in John's face, an expression tinged with anger and fear.

Opening his eyes again, Sherlock looked down into John's anguished face. "It's not your fault," he repeated, almost flatly. He didn't know what else to say; there were too many things to be considered in light of this unpleasant development.

John stared back for a long moment, trying to see past that impassive face, but once again it was as though Sherlock had put up a wall behind his eyes after that one minute of realisation. Abruptly, John stood. "I'm going to bed," he said shortly, swiping his phone from the table and stuffing it roughly back in his pocket. "See you - tomorrow, then." Without another word, he brushed past Sherlock and left the room. He didn't think he could stand to be in there any longer.

Sherlock didn't try to stop John from leaving, but instead watched with a strange look on his pale features as the other stalked away. Only when he was sure that his flatmate had no intention of coming back downstairs did he allow the tension to creep openly back onto his face. Pivoting sharply, he moved over to one of the chairs by the fire and sat down, mind whirling in an almost sickening pattern. No matter what John might say, Sherlock could tell that his friend knew far more than he was willing to admit. And that conclusion was enough to keep the detective staring into the fireplace for several hours yet.

Moriarty had played his cards well.

* * *

Bah ha ha ha. Looks like it's going to be fun, eh? Don't forget to review! May the Force be with you.


	17. Chapter 16: Just A Walk In The Park

_So, here we go! The beginnings of the real meat of the fun, so to speak. This is where I get to go into more of a detective mode with Sherlock, which I'm not entirely sure I managed satisfactorily. But I hope it's adequate, at least._

_I'm realising how hard it is to keep a character like Sherlock in ignorance when I myself know all the details, heh heh. Anyway, enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Just A Walk In The Park**

_He's a spider. A spider at the center of a web, a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances. _

The anticipated text did not come until late the next afternoon. John had been out of the flat for most of the day, trying to occupy himself with trivial things while in reality staying as close to Baker Street as he could without actually being there. He wasn't sure what he expected to happen, but anything orchestrated by Moriarty was guaranteed to be a bad thing. All the same, he couldn't stay in the same room as Sherlock for more than a few minutes without feeling his guilt begin to resurface, and what was the point in staying if they weren't even making eye contact, much less talking?

Apparently, though, Moriarty had no respect for John's attempts to be tactful, because John had only gotten back to the flat a few minutes before when his phone beeped shrilly at him.

Sherlock was in his room - fully dressed, but still lying on his bed - when he heard his flatmate's phone go off in the other room. He didn't react immediately, but continued to lie there for a few moments, staring blankly at the ceiling. Part of him was relieved that the suspense overshadowing most of the day was about to end, but at the same time...

He shook away the doubts that threatened to encroach upon his thinking and sat up, briefly kneading his forehead with one hand. Time to find out what Moriarty was up to. Slowly, he rose, opened the door of his bedroom, and walked out into the main area of the flat.

John had thumbed open the text and was staring at it, hard. Why so close - and why such a public area? Admittedly there wouldn't be so many park-goers there at this hour, but all the same...

He glanced up sharply as Sherlock entered the room. Without saying anything, he tossed his phone over, still with the message shining innocently from the screen:

_Hampstead Heath S End Road. _  
_Thanks again._  
_JM_

Sherlock caught the phone deftly and gave his friend a short, searching glance before lowering his eyes to read the text. Outwardly, his features barely twitched, but mentally he was having the same thoughts as John. What was Moriarty playing at? Was he just trying to show that he could so easily be a neighbor?

"That's it, then?" Sherlock held the phone back out to its owner. "I'm just supposed to show up there?"

John nodded tightly, as though trying to get the gesture over with. "That's it," he said shortly as he took back his phone, giving the message only a flash of a glance before closing it again. He didn't want to look at it any longer than it had taken to read it. He made as if to walk past Sherlock, and did indeed take a few steps in the opposite direction, but then suddenly turned back.

"Sherlock..." He wanted to apologise again, but he knew that wouldn't help. "Just... be careful."

Sherlock didn't reply immediately. Striding over to the door, he pulled on his coat and tucked his scarf comfortably around his neck. His eyes flicked back across the room to where John was still standing there, looking at him.

"Don't worry about me," he said calmly. "But keep an eye on Mrs Hudson." He turned away again, saying as he did so, "I'll see you later." Without pausing, he disappeared through the doorway and down the stairs beyond.

* * *

The park Moriarty had named in his text was only ten minutes or so from Baker Street, which didn't give Sherlock a great deal of time to put his thoughts together as he sat in the back of the cab. He was keenly aware of the delicacy of the coming encounter - more than likely, both he and Moriarty would be trying to outbluff each other. Sherlock knew that he had to do everything possible to preserve the status quo that the criminal mastermind had put in place, and that meant not tipping him off in the slightest about John's leak.

By the time the taxi reached its destination, Sherlock felt as in-control of himself as was possible under the circumstances. He stepped out of the cab casually, letting his body relax, as though he really was just here to meet his flatmate. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and clothing as he walked purposefully across the pavement and edged around the worn stile gate that lead from the road into the grassy park. It took a bit of effort to force himself _not _to stare around in search of Moriarty; instead, he just glanced easily about him, looking for the John he knew wasn't there.

"Thought you might not make it."

Moriarty was sitting in the shadow of a trimmed hedge less than ten feet away, almost invisible in the onset of dusk that sent a darkening gloom under the trees. His form seemed to unfold itself as he stood and carefully smoothed out a few wrinkles from his jacket sleeve.

As usual, his face was impossible to read - casual, unsurprised, giving the impression that underneath the impassive exterior he might just be laughing, but you could never know for sure. His eyes followed Sherlock's movement appraisingly for a few seconds. There was a strange, dark shape the size of a large dog on the grass behind him, but he gave it only the briefest of glances, as though to make sure it was still there, before slipping his hands into his pockets and taking a few paces forward onto the pathway.

"Good place to meet, don't you think?" Moriarty flicked a look around at the park, where only a few people were wandering, and none in their immediate vicinity. "We won't be in anyone's way here."

Sherlock felt his body give the slightest of starts as the familiar voice reached his ears. Even expecting Moriarty to be here didn't completely suppress the fact that the other had him a bit off guard. But perhaps that was a good thing - it would make his bluff more convincing.

The consulting detective let his eyes widen, while the rest of him tensed unconsciously. He turned quickly to watch Moriarty emerge from the deepening shadows. His lips parted, but he paused deliberately, as though unable to find words, before actually speaking.

"Where's John?" he hissed, and the ripple of anger in his voice did not have to be feigned. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the dark, still shape on the ground.

The corner of Moriarty's lips twitched, and he let his gaze slide deliberately from Sherlock to the huddled form and back again. But when he spoke, naturally, he made no reference to it at all.

"John?" he repeated with a pretend frown, looking at Sherlock as though suddenly concerned. "He's yours, Sherlock, not mine." His next words were delicately emphasised as his eyes bored into the other man's. "Please don't tell me you've _lost _him again."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, not missing the other's casual glance to the figure lying prone behind him. "Don't patronise me," he spat out, carefully appearing to let his emotions begin to get the better of him. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't known John had told me to meet him here. With you, there's no such thing as coincidence."

"Isn't there?" Moriarty looked down at his shoes for a moment, and in the half-light he seemed to be smiling faintly to himself, utterly relaxed. "Are you surprised?"

Sherlock felt a small stab of unease at the direct question, but was careful not to show it. "I probably shouldn't be," he answered. "You never pop up without it being a surprise, so I suppose that in itself should no longer be unexpected."

"Good, good," Moriarty agreed, tilting his head and sounding amused. "You'll have to take my word for it, though, when I say I've no idea where _John _is - and I don't care." The expression he shot Sherlock was bizarrely matter-of-fact.

"You'll forgive me if I _don't_," retorted Sherlock, glaring at him. "Obviously you know something about where he is, or was, because you showed up to meet me instead of him."

"Obviously." Moriarty smiled at him, almost in sympathy, but did not seem inclined to offer any more than that.

Sherlock eyed the other man for a few long moments, trying to see past the tiny smirk, but wasn't surprised when he came away with nothing to show for the analysis. He glanced again the form on the ground, knowing Moriarty would catch the pointed look.

"What are you doing here?" he asked finally, forcing his voice back to relative steadiness.

"Waiting for you," was the smiling reply. Moriarty shook his head slightly as he began pacing a little, but easily, as though it merely helped him to think. "I've got a little proposition for you, Sherlock, and I've a feeling you're going to take me up on this one." He jerked his chin significantly over his shoulder, toward the prone form.

Sherlock stared hard at Moriarty, and his hands clenched involuntarily in the pockets of his coat. "Oh?" he said, far more calmly than he felt. "I hope you'll tell me what it is before I have to give an answer - blind dates really aren't my thing."

Moriarty returned the stare, his eyes widening slightly in mock surprise. Then, with a deliberate sort of shrug, he turned and walked away, stopping just in front of the shape on the ground. Crouching lightly, he leaned over and with one hand slowly turned the form into the light.

It was a girl - a child, perhaps eleven years old but no more, and as limp as the doll she resembled, with her pale, round face and her nut-brown hair strewn haphazardly over her shoulders. She was dressed plainly, in slightly worn jeans and a fitted purple T-shirt.

"Date or not, you two will have to get acquainted." The gleam of Moriarty's eyes could be seen directed at Sherlock, but his face was in shadow now and almost impossible to make out.

Sherlock let out a loud, harsh breath as Moriarty rolled the prone form over so that her features could be seen. His brow furrowing, he scanned her up and down from where he stood, but nothing about her clothing or physical state was remarkable. He moved closer, cautiously, and then he noticed the way her small chest was rising and falling - her breathing was shallow and irregular, even for someone so clearly unconscious.

Very deliberately refraining from asking Moriarty's permission, Sherlock dropped to his knees beside the girl. He pulled his magnifier from his pocket, slid it open, and began a more detailed inspection. Her clothing was free of stains and smudges. One of the first things he noticed was the bulge in one of her jeans pockets; but he would come back to that later. Her skin seemed similarly unblemished... then he lifted the left sleeve of her shirt and saw the tiny mark left behind by a hypodermic needle. But that couldn't be the reason for her being unconscious; sedatives slowed the breathing, but didn't generally make it so irregular...

He shoved the glass back into his pocket and leaned over the girl's head, gently lifting her eyelids. Her pupils were significantly dilated... but what was causing it? He frowned, looking her up and down again and feeling more like a doctor than a detective. Children were always more difficult than adults; they didn't give one much to go on in the way of observations.

Moriarty had settled back onto his heels and was watching Sherlock with a face devoid of expression except for one raised eyebrow. He made no move to interrupt the examination, but regarded it with some semblance of interest for while.

"Conclusions?" he asked softly, expectantly, as though this were a quiz.

Raising his face again, Sherlock glanced over at the other man. "She's been given at least two different drugs, one of them probably a sedative, another which is causing her irregular breathing and dilated pupils." He pulled back the girl's sleeve again to expose the needle mark. "One of them was injected, though it's difficult to say which." He gave Moriarty a strange look then. "What are you making this my problem?" he said slowly.

Moriarty stood and lifted his eyebrows again. "Because it _is _your problem," he answered softly. "Because she" - he indicated the girl with another nod of his head - "knows something you need to know."

Sherlock also rose, never breaking eye contact with the other man. "Something you told her?" he replied, his voice just as quiet as Moriarty's.

"For almost three days now there has been someone watching your flat," Moriarty said, ignoring the question completely. "Someone who's _very _good with a weapon, and if you'll notice, neither you nor John has been stopped or hindered in any way. I think you understand the implications there."

Sherlock continued to stare at him, though his eyes appeared to widen imperceptibly. "Mrs Hudson," he whispered, though of course inwardly he had already known. He bit his lip before going on. "Why are you doing this?"

"You mean John hasn't told you? Disappointing; he told you everything else." Moriarty's smile widened as his gaze locked onto Sherlock's, knowingly.

Sherlock couldn't stop his breath from catching in his throat. Moriarty knew, somehow. Had his performance really been that obvious? He swore inwardly, and let out a slow breath. So much for bluffing.

"No, actually, he didn't tell me _everything else_," he said flatly. "Barely told me anything at all."

"Sorry," Moriarty said, spreading his hands, "your semblance of surprise just wasn't _quite _enough to convince me. But here we are," he went on quickly, "wasting time that you really do... need." He glanced again at the still form of the girl. "You don't think she's going to last forever, do you? Oh, and there is a right answer to that question," he added unnecessarily.

Something behind Sherlock's eyes tightened. "Is there anything else?" he asked stiffly. He wasn't sure he liked that he had no other choice than to go along with this latest scheme which Moriarty had concocted, particularly when he didn't see the point yet. Had using John as the go-between just been a barbed little twist designed to sting him? But underneath the confusion, he could feel his pulse quickening with something that might have been excitement. At least Moriarty's puzzles were never boring...

"Oh, _thank_ you for reminding me." Reaching inside his tailored jacket, Moriarty pulled a small pager from his pocket and tossed it carelessly at Sherlock. "I'm giving you a way to contact my associate with the gun. _However_..." He let it trail off for a moment, seeming to savour the word. "There's one catch, Sherlock - just one. Any idea what it might be?"

Sherlock reached out to catch the proffered object without even looking at it, his eyes still fixed on Moriarty. "I only get one shot?" he suggested, choosing the last word deliberately.

The other man tilted his head back and forth, considering. "In a manner of speaking. There's only one word, Sherlock, one word that will call him off - and _she_ knows it." His eyes flickered toward the unconscious child. "Shame she can't talk right now, isn't it? Actually, I don't know that she can even _think_."

"So that's it," breathed Sherlock, glancing between Moriarty and the girl on the ground between them. But then his eyes narrowed again. "Though... that can't be all...can it?" He shook his head slowly as he slipped the pager into his pocket. "It can't be that simple, not coming from you..."

Moriarty shrugged easily. "Well, you've got to figure out what I've given her, to start," he said, with an odd sort of candour, as though it wasn't worth the trouble to try to make things difficult. "I thought that would be obvious."

"Of course," was Sherlock's almost insulted reply. "But I've learned to start thinking ahead when it comes to your little schemes."

"Could've fooled me," Moriarty said, looking sceptical. He slid his hands back into his pockets and glanced around at the park, which was now darkened under the heavy twilight. "Well, that's it," he announced with another shrug. "I'd wish you luck, but you don't believe in it - and neither do I."

"Oh, but I do appreciate the thought," replied Sherlock, with a very thin smile. "And that's what counts, isn't it?" He didn't mean a word of it, of course.

"So they say."

For a long moment, Moriarty simply stared at him, going very still. Then, without another word, he turned very slowly and walked away. A faint, unidentifiable hum of a tune floated back before dying along with the sound of his footsteps on the pavement.

Sherlock watched him go, his lip twitching slightly as the casual figure faded away into the gloom. Only when Moriarty's silhouette had disappeared did he turn his attention to the girl lying prone at his feet. Oh, this was going to be a good one, when he walked into the flat carrying an unconscious child. Stooping down, he lifted her in his arms and made his way back to the road.

* * *

Don't forget to review on your way out! We've got a ways to go with this thing yet. May the Force be with you.


	18. Chapter 17: Another Trail Of Crumbs

****_Getting right into Sherlock's detective mode here! Hope it comes across accurately. Also, I want to reiterate our disclaimer here, of sorts - apologies if any of the medical aspects are inaccurate and/or implausible. We are not doctors, but we did try to fake it. =P_

_For anyone interested - I am, in fact, in possession of the book appearing in this chapter. Made me snicker, and also made incorporating the details of it a heck of a lot easier._

_Thank you in advance for your continued support and reviews!_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Another Trail Of Crumbs**

_Why is my brother determined to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting?_

Ten minutes later, Sherlock unlocked the front door of 221B with a bit of difficulty, owing to unanticipated burden of the child. He adjusted her limp weight in his arms before making his way upstairs to the flat. Sherlock could already see the look on John's face, even without actually glancing at the man, as he strode through the doorway.

John had been sitting in his usual armchair, glancing through a day-old newspaper but in reality not taking in a word of it, agitated as he was. He straightened suddenly upon hearing the front door slam shut, and was already looking expectantly toward the stairs when Sherlock came in.

"Sherlock? Is that y -"

But he broke off as his mind did a double-take. It was Sherlock all right, Sherlock looking extremely testy and carrying what could only be a child in his arms. For a long moment, John could only stare, his mouth slightly open; whatever he had expected, it had certainly not been this. "Oh - God... Sherlock, what - what happ - who _is _that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly as he moved across the living room and laid the prone form onto the sofa. "I need you to examine her,' he said matter-of-factly, walking back towards the door again and pulling off his coat and scarf. "She's been given at least two drugs, one of them a sedative; the other I'm not sure about yet, but -" He broke off for a moment, hanging his coat thoughtfully on the back of the door. "But it's probably going to kill her if we don't find a way to counteract it."

John stood up quickly, giving Sherlock a sharp, concerned look as he hurried over to the sofa, breathing a soft swear. "That's all good to know, Sherlock, but where did she come from, exactly?" He sat down again, this time on the very edge of the sofa, and grasped one of the girl's limp wrists between his fingers as he measured her pulse.

Sherlock let out a short breath and moved to stand beside his friend, staring down at the small figure. "Moriarty brought her with him," he answered. "You're not the only pawn in this game of his, John..." He pressed his fingers together for a moment, then reached down to pull back the girl's sleeve again. "She was given something by injection, here," he said, indicating the spot.

"Yeah, I can see it," John leaned forward, running a finger very lightly over the mark. "Can't tell us much, though, can it? Her pulse is pretty weak, Sherlock - I don't think it's just the sedative." He frowned, the expression creating deep lines along his brow, and tilted his head so that it was almost resting against the girl's chest. "Breathing's odd, too," he muttered grimly. "There's definitely something else in her system, something that's agitating it."

Sherlock nodded quickly. "Yes, I noticed that. And look at her pupils." He reached over again and lifted on of the girl's limp eyelids. "Extremely dilated." He steepled his fingers near his lips once more, his expression both calculating and expectant as he glanced between doctor and unexpected patient. "Any ideas?"

"But that could be the sedative or - whatever else it was she's got in her," John explained, taking another, closer look. "Morphine has the same effects, but she's not just asleep; she's not even responding to any sort of stimulus." He glanced up, feeling a sense of increasing helplessness. "She's in a coma, Sherlock, and whatever put her in it is going to be the thing that's killing her." He ran a hand hard over his forehead, trying to think. "Some sort of poison would be the most logical explanation, but - do we have _anything _else to go on? Anything at all?"

"We'll find out in a moment." Sherlock knelt down beside the sofa, returning his attention to the slight bulge in the pocket of the girl's jeans. With a small frown, he delicately slipped his hand into the pocket and drew out two things - a mobile phone, and a small sheet of paper.

"Now we're getting somewhere..."

The paper was fairly thick, cream-coloured at first sight, and had three smooth edges coinciding with another, rather ragged one. It had been folded in half, and then again. In black ink and all capital letters was written one word: _DARNAY_.

John looked up, following the movement of Sherlock's hand. "A phone, and - what's that?" He was still frowning, though this time half with curiosity. "You think - he left those deliberately? Moriarty?" He stood after a moment, peering closely at the two items.

"Obviously," replied Sherlock distractedly. "Here." He shoved the phone into John's hand for the time being, instead focusing on the sheet of paper. He unfolded it carefully, feeling the crispness of its movement and noting the slight flaking around the creases that declared its somewhat considerable age. When flattened, it measured about six inches by four. Frowning slightly, he moved across the room and held the paper under the glow of the lamp, his eyes only a few inches from its surface.

"India paper," he muttered, as much to himself as to John. _Three smooth edges, coloured red, traces of gold overlay, fourth edge uneven, no colour. _"Torn from a book, an old one - early 1900s, if I'm any judge." _Front side plain, back side patterned (dark green and black wave design under gold and white cracked marble). _"Last sheet next to the back cover..."

He turned the paper over again, eyeing the plain side scrutinisingly. "Pass me my magnifier, John," he ordered, sticking out his free hand. Anticipating the other's question, he added, "Coat pocket. Left side."

John didn't bother with the usual protests; with an anxious glance at the unconscious girl, he took a few quick steps to the door and, after some feeling about, fished the magnifier from Sherlock's coat. "Here," he offered. "See anything else?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied slowly, taking the proffered object without looking at it. He peered through it at the paper for a moment, then announced, "Whatever book this came from had a leatherbound cover - probably Morocco, if the time period is right - there's some residue on the page here where the leather was worn off." He paused for half a moment, then went on speculatively, "The title and author were probably gilded onto the spine..."

"How," said John blankly, "can you possibly know what was on the spine of a book you only have one endpage from?"

"Standard practice with books of this kind. Decorated endpage, gilded edges, leather cover - that means this was more of a luxury book, hence the gilding of the title and author onto the spine. Gilding works particularly well on Morocco leather."

"OK, so, what does that tell us?" John asked, biting back a surge of impatience. He knew this was how Sherlock worked. And they had to do it Sherlock's way, because - because that was what Moriarty wanted, apparently. "What about the writing?"

A look of annoyance crossed Sherlock's face as he turned his attention to the single word inked onto the paper. "Moriarty favours fountain pens, apparently," he said, somewhat sardonically. "Darnay... _Darnay_... a name of some sort, obviously, but who or what, I don't know..." He shook his head briefly, then closed his eyes, trying to make some sort of connection. Nothing really came to mind.

"Darnay?" John repeated, lines deepening between his eyes. "You mean like, Dickens' Darnay?"

Sherlock tilted his head, turning slightly to face John. "What're you talking about?"

"You know - Darnay. Charles Dickens, Charles Darnay - " The doctor broke off upon seeing the puzzled look on his friend's face, hardly believing it. "You've never read _A Tale of Two Cities_? Seriously?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Should I have?" he asked simply. "It sounds rather dull, from the title."

John shook his head wonderingly. "Sherlock, it's a classic. C'mon - _seriously _- you've never read it?"

"Not that I recall, no."

"OK, well, Charles Darnay is one of the main characters. But if that's not it" - John shrugged tightly - "we've got nothing to go on." He gave his friend a helpless sort of look. They were being led around by the nose already.

"So he's playing the story game again," muttered Sherlock. He folded the endpage carefully and tucked it inside his jacket. "Let's have a look at that phone." His hopes weren't high, however. Two immediately useful clues was a bit much to be expected under the circumstances.

John turned the phone over in his hand for a few seconds before handing it to Sherlock. "Bit too familiar, that," he remarked, trying to keep his tone offhand and only partially succeeding. "Giving us a phone to work with."

"Convenient for him, though." Sherlock gave the device a cursory inspection, expecting little and finding even less. When he switched it on, he wasn't at all surprised to encounter a "locked" screen. With an irritated sort of grunt, he set the phone down on the desk beside him. His eyes flickered briefly back over to the sofa, intent beneath low-drawn brows.

"No luck?" John asked, peering over at the phone and feeling a bit irritated himself when he saw the screen. "Oh. That figures. OK, Sherlock, what exactly are you supposed to be doing here? What does he _want_?"

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "It's similar to what he's done before, of course - leaving clues for me to figure out - but that was before we'd even met. It's the same game, but within entirely different circumstances." He shrugged lightly. "Seems to be nothing for it but to play along, for now." And frankly, the idea wasn't _entirely_unappealing.

"_Play along_?" repeated John, with a distinct edge to his voice now. "Sherlock, there's a girl in a coma _right there_." He jerked his chin sharply toward the sofa and went on heatedly, "We should be getting her to the hospital, figuring out whatever the hell he gave her - "

But Sherlock stamped on that idea immediately.

"No," he said forcefully. "For one thing, we've no idea what Moriarty might do if we try to go about this using any sort of 'official' methods. Did you already forget about the gunman? That's a very good reason for us to do this the way he intends, at least until we figure out more about what exactly is going on here. Secondly, there is no guarantee, even if we brought her to the hospital, that they'd be able to figure out what's wrong with her in time. This, however" - he pulled out the endpage again and brandished it in John's face - "is far more of a certainty. We've got a much better chance of finding the answer by using this, and I may be able to pick up some hints of what Moriarty's really up to if it appears that we're playing along."

John bit his lip. "We _are_playing along," he pointed out in a rather pained voice. He looked between Sherlock's face and the page, realising already that trying to convince the detective to take the normal steps was a lost cause. "What I don't get is - why is he doing this? What's he after, this time? And," he added frustratedly, "who is she?"

"That," said Sherlock, "is precisely what I intend to find out."

The endpage disappeared into his jacket again as he strode across the room to where he had hung his coat on the door. A few moments later, he was once again dressed to go out, and his eyes were curiously bright.

"Time to go book-hunting."

John looked back at his friend with an awful feeling of suspense building somewhere in his chest. He shut his eyes for a split second.

"I"ll stay here, keep an eye on her," he said quietly, indicating the girl on the sofa. "Sherlock - be careful, OK?" A slight shiver went through him as he met his friend's eyes. "We don't know what he's got planned."

* * *

Sherlock couldn't suppress a little shiver of anticipation as he hailed a cab and directed it towards the London Library. Irritating though Moriarty might be, he did have the wit and resources to put together a much more interesting challenge than the majority of what Sherlock usually unearthed on his own. The detective had been feeling the strain of inactivity for weeks now, even more so when John seemed determined to keep him cloistered within 221B for God only knew how long. This was what he needed - a breath of fresh air, the opportunity to exercise his brain on something more stimulating than public scandals or Sudoku.

He hadn't been lying, of course, when he told Moriarty that he wanted no part in the consulting criminal's manic schemes. Had Sherlock gotten his way entirely, such would have been the case. But as long as Moriarty seemed determined to drag him into this, he might as well enjoy what he could. He probably wouldn't have been able to help it anyway. And additionally, as he had explained to John, feigning cooperation might just lull Moriarty into a false sense of complete control.

Only a short while later, Sherlock was to be found wafting quietly between tall shelves laden with books. His movement was discreet; although most people had already left the library or were preparing to do so, he didn't need someone to give him an inadvertent glance and start pairing recognition with understanding. Much as he might protest at being so confined, he was honest enough to admit to himself that he didn't really want to deal with the drama that would arise from his presence becoming public information. Particularly not under the current circumstances.

He paused finally beside the shelf he had apparently been seeking. Logic has analysed what information he had, and then had dictated that if the book he was seeking was to be found anywhere in this library, it would be here. He bent over slightly, running a finger swiftly along the shelf's edge, his careful eyes scanning the various volumes while their unwanted titles fell inadvertently from his lips in a low stream. It didn't take him long to see the now predictable problem that had arisen.

There was no book.

He went through the shelf again, this time lifting each book from among its fellows and giving it, and its place, a quick once-over. Nothing, nothing, nothing... with increasing frustration, but determined not to miss anything, he continued to check until he ran out of eligible volumes.

Nothing.

Sherlock straightened slowly again, bringing his fingers together in a gesture of habit. It took a moment for him to notice the brownish stain on his fingertips. Frowning, he spread his hands apart, staring at them, and then his expression slowly cleared.

Of course. There had only been the faintest traces of residue on the endpage found in the girl's pocket, because it had been inside the book, protected for the most part from the eroding leather cover. There had been no stain on his fingers from handling it. But now the brown residue was blatant against his pale skin. He held one hand up in front of his eyes, examining the stain with interest. It must have rubbed off while he was searching through the books at some point. It had been _on_ the books. And that meant that the book he was seeking - this antique copy of _A Tale of Two Cities _- had been there; it did, in fact, exist.

A slow smile crept over his features. He was on the right trail.

* * *

"Excuse me, I believe you've got a copy of _A Tale of Two Cities _being held here?"

Sherlock absently drummed his fingers on the reception desk of the library as he glanced down at the bespectacled woman sitting behind it. He was actually surprised at how sincere the polite words had sounded when he uttered them. But then, this lady probably wouldn't know the difference anyway. He had already come to the conclusion that she wasn't the sort who would recognise him, even up close.

The woman looked up, giving him a cursory glance before typing something into the computer to her right. "And what name is it being held under?" she asked, in a tone that suggested she had gone through this routine many, many times before.

Inwardly, Sherlock gritted his teeth. It was these little minute details that tended to get on his nerves. Outwardly, however, he only frowned and maintained his semblance of polite ignorance.

"Well, I'm not exactly sure," he said slowly. "My friend asked me to pick it up for him... try Richard Brook." It was a valid hunch, after all.

More typing into the computer. "I'm sorry, we don't seem to have anything held under that name." The receptionist gave him a slightly apologetic look. "You're sure this is the, erm, right friend?" Now she was looking at him strangely, as though wondering what kind of person wasn't able to remember the name of their own friend.

Sherlock grimaced slightly. "Oh, yes, it's the right friend.. wrong name... give me a few moments." He turned away, pressing his fingers together. At least he had gotten the obvious option out of the way. Now to think of more subtle possibilities...

"Alright," he said after a minute. "Try John Watson..."

The receptionist gave him a sceptical glance, but began typing again. "_A Tale of Two Cities_... Oh, yes, on hold for John Watson. One moment while I go and get it for you." She shot him the sort of polite smile that she was probably expected to before hurrying away.

Sherlock watched her go without really seeing her; his mind was too busy wondering what was going on. Why would Moriarty use John's name? Just to toy with him again?

"There you are, then."

The spectacled woman had returned, and now slid an almost pocket-sized leatherbound volume across the top of the desk towards him. "It's quite an old copy, as you can see, so you'll want to be careful when you handle it." From her tone, she didn't seem at all willing to trust him on that score. "We have plenty of newer ones if you'd like one of those instead."

"No, no," murmured Sherlock, lifting the book carefully in his hands, already scanning it. "This will do just fine..." Without another word he turned and strode away. He found a well-lit, out of the way corner of the library, thankfully with no other occupants, and swiftly took a seat. Laying the volume on a low table, he slipped on his gloves to prevent further spreading of worn leather residue and began thumbing through the pages, looking for something out of place. He was only about a quarter way through the book when he found it.

A single piece of ordinary paper. Perfectly square, each side precisely two inches long and cut with a very sharp implement. Both sides utterly blank. He lifted it delicately and held it up to the light, and when that didn't yield anything, he sniffed briefly at it. The only scent was that of the book which had held it.

He went through the remaining three-quarters of the book without finding anything else that shouldn't have been there. He eased the volume closed again and leaned back, staring quizzically at the paper now lying innocently on the table. It was a clue, he was sure, but at the same time... it wasn't. It was as though the absence of a clue was the clue itself. What was Moriarty trying to tell him?

Abruptly, the consulting detective rose again, slipping the paper back inside the book and then tucking the volume carefully into his coat pocket. Long, purposeful strides took him quickly to the entrance of the library; he didn't even see the look that the receptionist gave him as he whipped past and exited the building.

* * *

Off he goes again. Hard to catch that detective when he's dashing around London. Wonder where he'll end up? May the Force be with you.


	19. Chapter 18: Deeper Into The Web

_Our sincere apologies for the delay in posting this - reality decided to creep up and pounce on both Kaelir and myself. Fortunately, I don't see another last-minute mini-hiatus in the future!_

_More research went into this chapter, I think, than any of the others; it's as accurate and plausible as we were able to make it without being experts. There is quite a bit of subtext as well. Some connections have been made for the reader via Sherlock, while others are just planted in there for the amusement of it, and don't have a whole lot of bearing on the actual plot. I'm sure you clever people will pick up on them._

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Deeper Into The Web**

_When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._

Patches of orange light and deep purple shadow passed one after the other across Sherlock's face as he sat tensely inside the cab. He tapped his steepled fingertips slowly, pensively, against his lips, trying to think. Either there was something he was missing regarding this second piece of paper - a possibility which he was on his way to rectifying - or he was on the wrong track entirely. His mind spread itself out a bit further, hunting for these elusive suspects of ideas.

On a hunch, he carefully extracted _A Tale of Two Cities _from his coat pocket again and flipped back to the pages between which he had discovered the paper. His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning down one side, then the other, flicking back and forth and back again as he quickly read the tiny print. Then his brows drew together in a concentrated frown.

'_He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual vivacity. "Pray, Doctor Manette," said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the plane-tree—and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to be the old buildings of London—"have you seen much of the Tower?"_'

And then, a few lines down:

'_"In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by prisoners—dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler."_'

Sherlock threw his mind back to his previous interactions with James Moriarty. The other man clearly had something of a soft spot for these stories, these tales and myths which could never be quite believed but had their foundations in some sort of fact. Moriarty enjoyed playing games with them, twisting them around to suit reality, or vice versa. It wasn't far-fetched to say that this could indeed be another example of that.

The detective exhaled softly as he closed the book again and pushed it back into his pocket; and then he eased back slightly in his seat. He still had something to work with, two obvious routes of investigation and maybe more. He only hoped that he would have enough time to follow up on both, and any subsequent leads, before the purpose behind all of this became obsolete.

* * *

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the presence of one Molly Hooper as he passed by her in the corridor of Bart's Hospital, though he did turn his head briefly a moment later to see that she had veered around and fallen into step behind him. An annoyed look crossed his face, but he flicked it away again as an unneeded distraction. His long strides took him quickly to the door of the lab, which he pulled open sharply and slipped through without bothering to hold it for his unwanted shadow.

"Everything okay, then?" Molly, apparently unaware of the fact that her presence was far less than desired, had eased through the door after the detective, and was eyeing him now. "How's John?"

Sherlock rounded the wide table covered with lab equipment, pulling off his coat. He fished out the objects of evidence which he had to work with - two small sheets of paper and a worn book - before draping the garment over a nearby chair. His hands quickly spread out the objects on the table in front of him, and he seated himself almost absently with his hands folded beneath his chin. Several moments passed before he spoke.

"I'd rather not be disturbed right now." The implied order was dead-panned as he continued to stare down at the evidence. Abruptly, he shifted his seat to one side, so that he was directly in front of a microscope. With another flash of annoyance, he flicked away the slide that the previous user had left under the lens, and seeing that Molly had not yet departed, held it out to her.

"Here. Put this where it belongs."

Molly appeared to flush slightly, but hurried forward and almost snatched the slide from between his fingers. "Okay," she mumbled, and immediately turned on her heel and scurried away.

Ignoring this, Sherlock picked up the blank square of paper and slipped it under the microscope. He studied every centimeter of it intently, both sides, and still, _still_, he could find nothing unusual about it. Not the slightest trace of a clue. He pressed his fingers together and leaned back, thinking over what else he had to work with. Where did that story about the prisoner in the Tower come into this? Dungeons, digging, ashes... digging for a clue? D.I.C, D.I.G., DIG - wait.

The detective pulled out his mobile phone, pausing for half a second to consider the best option. Then, decisively, he speed-dialed John's number. Texting would create too much of a barrier between himself and the information - actually calling was the better option this time.

"John - the phone in the girl's pocket. You've got it, yes?"

"_What? Yeah, why?_"

"The password - type in three-four-two-four."

There was a short pause, then - _"Three-four - are you sure?"_

Sherlock cut him off impatiently. "Just do it."

_"Alright, okay..."_

Silence fell again on the other end of the line, but it was longer this time. Abruptly, John let out a muffled exclamation, in a tone that was somewhere between surprise and puzzlement. _"Sherlock... Sherlock, are you sure this is supposed to be one of Moriarty's clues?"_

"What do you mean - what else would it be?" Sherlock frowned deeply, trying to ignore the fact that by this time Molly had returned and was standing a few feet away with an expression of hesitant curiosity on her face. "Did it work?"

_"Well yes, but -_ " John seemed unable to articulate exactly what the problem was (and there certainly did seem to be a problem, of some kind). "_It's just that it's - well, here, have a listen yourself."_

Sherlock fell silent as unexpected sounds filtered in through the line. Music, sounding as though - at a guess - it had come out of a children's film or television show, and he couldn't make head nor tail of what it was supposed to mean. He told John so very distinctly.

_"That's why I asked, because it doesn't make sense," _came John's bemused voice again over the tail end of the song. "_I was listening just now, and - I think it's from an old kids' show, of all things. Winnie the Pooh. I don't s'pose you've heard of it."_

"No."

"_Figures. Erm... well that's what it sounds like, anyway."_

Sherlock ran his free hand through his hair distractedly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Molly was still standing nearby, and he quirked her a very pointed look that asked clearly what she was doing here. Then, eyeing her, he caught sight of a note-pad sized piece of paper held loosely in her hand. His eyes narrowed.

"What is that?"

"_What's what?_" John's muffled voice asked immediately.

"Not you," snapped Sherlock into his phone, before swivelling his eyes back to Molly, who glanced down and then looked at him in confusion.

"I found it when I put that slide away," she explained. "Someone just left it there, I guess."

Sherlock held out his hand. "Let me see it."

"_See what? Sherlock, what're you doing over there?_"

"I'll let you know." Sherlock abruptly ended the call. If he needed more details about the phone, then he would ask - otherwise John was just going to keep cutting in with useless questions. His friend wasn't entirely to blame, of course - stuck back at Baker Street with little idea of what was going on - but he would just have to be patient.

The detective's gaze trained on Molly again, expectantly. With the slightest of frowns, she passed over the paper, and stood waiting.

There was a printed header at the very top of the sheet, spelling out the full name of Bart's and confirming Sherlock's initial thought that it had come from a notepad. In the middle of the page were a few hand-written lines in green ink; in contrast to the "DARNAY" of the first paper, the script here was smaller and more elegant.

_She is Thy Ruler of the seas, with her mightyfulle velocitie moure veloce than the wynd, and mightyer than the rocke, she is, my Deare Godspeed._

Sherlock raised his head sharply. "Molly." His voice was curt and toneless. "What was in that slide you put away?"

"Oh, erm, nothing important, I don't think. It looked like ash to me." She let out a soft little laugh, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "I guess you can't be the only one who comes in here and studies unusual things."

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, and his lips twitched slightly into what might have been a grim sort of smile. The pieces were coming together.

Without saying anything more, he dropped his eyes to the paper again and studied the writing on it, rereading it several times in the space of a few seconds. The frown returned quickly to his features. First a story, then a song - now what was this? Old poetry?

Abruptly, he lifted his phone from his pocket and typed the lines, word for strangely-spelled word, into the search application. His eyes darted back and forth as he filtered through and absorbed the results. _Godspeed, ship. Commanded by Captain Bartholomew Gosnold. 1606-1607 voyage to Virginia resulting in founding of Jamestown settlement._

And there was still this business of that song, something to do with "Winnie the Pooh", according to John...

"Anything interesting, then?"

Sherlock glanced up again at Molly's soft enquiry. "Interesting?" he repeated slowly. "Yes, I suppose you could say that..."

"Right, so - what does it mean?" She gestured briefly at the sheet of paper. "That - note, or whatever it is?"

"Nothing for you to worry about." Sherlock regarded her for a moment, then reached for his coat and tucked the paper into its pocket. "I'll take this along with me, if you don't mind." He gathered up the remaining items on the table in front of him and rose, draping his scarf around his neck.

"Leaving so soon?" Molly was looking up at him in confusion now. Sherlock didn't bother to spare a moment and give her an exasperated look, but merely turned to leave, saying, "I've got everything I need here, thank you." The words were emotionless, or distracted, or both, and the gratitude in them scanty at best; but Sherlock was far too busy pondering to care. He swept from the lab almost on auto-pilot, and his eyes had a preoccupied look to them.

It struck him as the door swung shut behind him that Moriarty was having a very good play on his mental, if not emotional state by running him so quickly through the loops of this game. The detective was enjoying himself somewhat, of course, enjoying being out and chasing down information; but at the same time the incident with the slide of ashes had alerted him to something else. Moriarty _knew _how Sherlock thought, had given him more an absence of a clue than a clue itself in the blank square of paper and trusted that the detective would go to Bart's in response. It was a little thing, in itself, but it was also just a bit more of a manipulation than Sherlock really cared for.

As he pulled on his coat and exited the hospital, he resolved to make a quick end of this game - quicker, perhaps, than Moriarty might expect. And with that out of the way, he could focus on figuring out exactly what was behind all this. After all, he still didn't know the identity of this girl lying in his flat...

Sherlock drew in a lungful of cold air, and instead of hailing a cab, stepped into the shadow of the hospital building and leaned back against the wall. Head tilted back, eyes closed, he began sorting through the clues that were jostling for position in his mind. According to Moriarty, this was all to figure out what had caused the girl to sink into a deep coma. Though he was far from trusting the consulting criminal, Sherlock reasoned that in this case, he would have to cautiously take the other man at his word - otherwise what was the point?

_Darnay. A Tale of Two Cities. Three sheets of paper. Tower of London. Ashes. D.I.(C.)G. Bartholomew. Godspeed. Jamestown. Winnie the Pooh. Coma. Poison._

So many possibilities, and all of them linked to one another, all of them interconnected in some way. He needed to find the links that would lead to new realisations, not ones that would keep him running in circles within the realm of what he already knew.

Twenty minutes and one web-search later, he knew he was almost there.

_A Tale of Two Cities. City One: Jamestown, Virginia. City Two: Winnipeg, Manitoba._

Two cities. One story.

And it didn't take him much longer to run through his knowledge of poisons - and in this case, hallucinogens - to find one that could be connected to both places. A deadly plant that had first been documented in Jamestown, Virginia, and only a few years ago had been the cause of a surge of adolescent hospitalisations in Winnipeg, Manitoba...

A moment later he was ringing John's number again.

"_Thanks for hanging up_," John broke in immediately, the words tight and clipped with forestalled anxiety. "_You'd better hurry up with whatever you're doing, Sherlock._ _Her pulse and breathing are both getting weaker. If she goes too much deeper there won't be anything we can do._" There was a definite note of worry in his tone now, though he seemed to be trying to control it. _"Have you found anything?"_

"_Datura stramonium, _John. That's what she was poisoned with. Jimsonweed."

There was a soft intake of breath from the other phone. Sherlock strode quickly to the edge of the pavement as he spoke, scanning the street for a cab. The irony of the solution hadn't passed him by - in fact it only confirmed that he was correct.

"_Jimson - OK, Sherlock, I'm getting her to the hospital. She needs to be treated immediately._" Already John's voice was becoming uneven, presumably because he was moving around suddenly. "_Get back to the flat as soon as you can; I don't want to leave Mrs H here alone._"

"I'm on my way already." Sherlock raised the hand that wasn't holding his phone to get the attention of an approaching taxi. "Try not to go into too much detail when the hospital staff start interrogating you."

"_I'll just tell them it's one of your problems,_" John replied grimly. "_They never want to know exactly what you're up to._"

* * *

Jimsonweed has a couple other interesting names as well... go look 'em up, if you're so inclined. =P But leave a review first! May the Force be with you.


	20. Chapter 19: One Little Word

_Well well well, here we are again! Looks like our detective and his blogger are getting somewhere now. At least, they think they are..._

_Next chapter is going to be a biggie, so you've all got something to look forward to. Thanks for sticking with us through all the suspense!_

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: One Little Word Is All It Takes**

_That's what you do when you sell a big lie - you wrap it up in a truth to make it more palatable._

For the next few hours, Sherlock took advantage of the fact that John was not around at the flat; it gave him the physical and mental space he needed to speculate freely and attempt to figure out where Moriarty was going with this whole elaborate puzzle. He doubted he was going to get very far in trying to decipher the actual scheme - Moriarty was just too careful in the clues and hints he was dropping to give away anything by accident. It didn't stop Sherlock from going ahead and making a considerable effort to figure it out anyway, though.

No, there was something else that was nagging at the consulting detective, something rather like an ominous undertone to the main plot. Where and how did John figure into this? Prior to this entire episode - or series of them - Moriarty had never appeared to pay more than the scantest attention to the other man, but then had made a point of "checking in" on him after his return from the hospital... and was now apparently using him as some sort of puppet. Even the book had been left under John's name... what did it mean?

Sherlock was roused from these troubled musings by the sharp ring of his phone from the table nearby. He wandered over and glanced down, then frowned deeply upon recognising the number. Exhaling deliberately, he picked up.

"Hello?"

"_Nice to see you've gotten this far. Congratulations might be a bit premature, though._"

Sherlock forced out another calming breath before replying. "Going to give me another hint, then? Another clue? Or are you just calling to warn me against overconfidence?"

"_None of the above_," Moriarty replied, sounding as though he were shrugging. "_But you've got ninety minutes, Sherlock. Change of plans._"

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. He abruptly ended the call, then stood there for a moment, his mind racing. Ninety minutes... which meant they needed to get that girl conscious, and quickly.

Without hesitating further, he sent a rapid text to John, who had not yet returned from the hospital.

_Status report?_  
_SH_

John had hardly left the girl's bedside since she had been brought to the hospital; he had been hovering anxiously the entire time as another doctor set up the intravenous solution of physostigmine that had been deemed the best source of treatment after less risky methods had produced no visible effect. He was sitting in a rather uncomfortable hospital chair, still watching the child for any sign of consciousness, when he got Sherlock's text.

_Still unconscious but her breathing's eased up. Coming?_  
_JW_

_On my way. We need to get her conscious, even temporarily._  
_SH_

John frowned, unsure what had prompted the sudden rush. He quickly sent back a reply.

_Something come up?_  
_JW_

_New time limit._  
_SH_

* * *

Sherlock was grateful for one thing - Bart's Hospital was only ten minutes from Baker Street. But still, he could faintly hear the clock ticking away inside his brain even after that short trip. Eighty minutes... and there was no telling how long it would take to get the girl conscious, or indeed to discover the _word _which she apparently knew... Unheeding of the doctors and orderlies who paused to give him slightly confused looks as he strode quickly down the well-lit corridors, Sherlock made his way to the room where, he had been informed, John and the small patient could be found.

"Any change?" he demanded immediately upon arriving, almost before he even got through the door. His eyes flicked over to the prone form lying on the bed.

John looked up, then shook his head slightly. "Nothing definite," he murmured, looking back with concern toward the girl, whose face looked very pale against the frame of her hair. He felt a twinge of something halfway between sadness and anger - mostly directed against Moriarty, who seemed to have no problem at all putting the lives of children in danger for his own purposes.

Sherlock moved closer to look down at the unconscious patient. His face was set as he turned his gaze to John. "There's got to be a way to wake her up for a bit, John. Even for just a few minutes - we can't wait." He glanced down at his watch again. Seventy-five minutes...

"What do you mean, it can't wait?" John asked sharply, stiffening. "What's changed?"

"Moriarty changed the rules." Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin line. "He called to inform me that we had ninety minutes left. That's now down to seventy-four."

Involuntarily, John glanced at his watch. "Damn it," he muttered. "Seventy-four minutes... until what?" But he thought he could guess. Moriarty's gunman had not been called off yet, and while he was still there...

He was distracted suddenly, though, by a soft sound from next to him that would have been almost inaudible had he not been listening to. John whipped his head around and immediately reached for the girl's wrist, checking her pulse even as his gaze roamed anxiously around her face, looking for the slightest flutter of movement. A second later he was rewarded; he could detect a faint tremor around her eyes and lips.

"I think she's coming around," he said quietly, letting out a soft breath of relief. "That doesn't mean she'll be able to talk though, Sherlock," he went on, with a pointed look at his friend. "The poison can cause short term memory loss in a lot of cases, and confusion in most."

Sherlock nodded without speaking, for once feeling torn by indecision. He couldn't help but recall the last time he had encountered a child placed in his path by Moriarty - the meeting had been short and rather off-putting. He couldn't be sure that this girl wouldn't have a similar reaction upon waking up in an unfamiliar place and seeing two strange men standing over her.

"See if you can talk to her," he muttered to John. He took a few steps back from the bed, his hesitancy obvious in his expression.

John could hardly help noticing Sherlock's reaction, but other than giving his friend a somewhat knowing look, he decided to make no comment. Moriarty's manipulations were something that was painful for both of them to think about, much less discuss - and Sherlock was never inclined to mention his shortcomings in the first place.

He was somewhat surprised to find that, upon looking back to the girl, her eyes were already open, and darting between himself and Sherlock with an expression that was, he thought, more suspicious than fearful. Despite his fears, she did not have the confused look of someone who remembers nothing. John cleared his throat and gave her the best of a smile he could manage at the moment as he took his hand from her wrist. "Feeling better?" That was what doctors were supposed to ask, after all.

She had been staring at Sherlock; now, slowly, her eyes moved back to regard him. "Yes," she said, quietly and distinctly.

Sherlock, standing slightly apart, seemed to relax slightly when the girl did not immediately cringe away from him or John. He eyed her for a long moment, wondering if he should try to press the point of this conversation, or let his flatmate take a gentler route. He decided to opt for the middle path.

"What can you remember, before being brought here?" He tried to keep his voice conversational, easy, but he wasn't sure he succeeded in hiding his rather apparent tension.

"I don't know," she answered weakly, wrapping her arms around herself and accidentally tugging on the IV solution. John quickly moved and reached out a hand to steady it, but almost immediately she shied away from him, and he settled back, biting his lip. Maybe she couldn't remember, after all.

"We're not going to hurt you," he assured her quietly. "I'm a doctor."

"Not everyone finds doctors reassuring, John," Sherlock pointed out mildly. He turned his gaze back to the girl, studying her. "You need to try to remember," he said, trying to keep his tone calm. "It's extremely important."

She turned her head then, staring at Sherlock for a long moment. "I know," she whispered, and it was hard to tell if there was a note of fear in her voice. "He told me... he told me..." Trembling now, she closed her eyes and huddled back a little further against the pillows propped at the top of the bed.

John continued to watch her, concern evident in his eyes, but part of him was afraid to press her for fear that she would become too wary to speak at all. He shot a quick glance at Sherlock, hesitant and questioning.

Sherlock caught his friend's look clearly, but only shook his head in response, as though to say, "We don't have a choice." He took a few steps back towards the bed, small ones, and his pace seemed almost involuntary. A frown creased his forehead as he stared hard at the girl's face.

"Told you what?" he asked softly, and he leaned forward slightly, his hands clenching around the metal railing at the foot of the bed.

But she shook her head quickly, pressing her lips together in a small, tight line. John felt his breath catch a bit, and he breathed a low sigh. This was not a very promising start.

Sherlock forced himself to let out a long, slow breath to echo John's. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think of a way that would make the girl more inclined to speak.

"Why don't you want to talk about it?" he asked finally, opening his eyes again to meet her hesitant gaze.

Once again her eyes darted between his and John's, as though trying to see more than what was there. "It's another trick," she whispered fearfully. "It is - you're just - _him _again..." She shut her mouth again, still shaking her head. "I won't. Go away."

Sherlock felt his jaw clench at her soft words, and he had to fight down an urge to let his frustration show clearly. Of course Moriarty wouldn't make it that simple...

"Alright," he said slowly, still keeping his gaze locked on the girl's frightened face. "How can we convince you that this isn't another trick?"

She hesitated, biting her lip and looking hard at him. There was a glimmer almost of calculation in her eyes for a moment and then she said, very softly, "Tell me who you are."

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered eventually, matching her low tone. He had stopped paying attention to that fact that John was even still in the room.

John was rather startled when Sherlock answered the question so easily. He gave his friend a curious if somewhat puzzled glance, and was about to add his own identity in a soft voice when he saw the look on the girl's face.

"Prove it," she said.

Sherlock blinked. What sort of eleven year old girl issued commands, albeit very quiet ones?

"Prove it?" he repeated slowly. "What do you want as proof?"

She eyed him for a few tense seconds. "Something. Anything. So I know you're actually him."

"Take my word for it?" John asked dubiously, but he was not surprised when she shook her head firmly back at him and then resumed her intent stare in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock stared right back at her, his eyes narrowed quizzically and feeling slightly out of his depth. After a moment's consideration, he drew out his wallet and held it out. "Will this suffice?" he asked shortly, but in the back of his mind he wasn't all that certain. ID could so easily be stolen, or faked.

Chewing her lower lip, the girl looked at the wallet for a few seconds and then stuck out her hand. John quickly stood, took the object, and passed it along without a word. He was unconsciously holding his breath by now, because if this didn't work...

But something in the girl's expression finally seemed to give way as she flipped through the contents of the wallet. Suddenly, John thought, she was looking much more like the anxious, exhausted girl she should have been, instead of the odd child with almost adult mannerisms. Whether or not the change was a good one, it certainly seemed to work in their favour, for a moment later—

"Vienna."

She said it even more softly, but John heard it all the same, and he was fairly certain that Sherlock did, too. "The word... it's Vienna."

Still watching the girl, Sherlock couldn't find anything in her stance or tone that would indicate she was lying. He acknowledged the information with a short nod and turned away from both her and John, taking a few strides towards the door. One hand reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew the pager that Moriarty had handed over only hours before.

"Back in a moment," he muttered distractedly over his shoulder, and he disappeared into the hallway. Half a minute later, the consulting detective walked back into the room, his face unreadable. He could only hope that the word he had sent via the pager would prove effective...

At the end of the allotted ninety minutes, despite the fact that it was heading for two in the morning, John called Mrs Hudson to check that everything was alright, and reported that nothing had happened, either before or after the limit had run its course.

Five minutes later, his phone received one more text.

_Thank you._  
_JM_

* * *

Dun dun dun... that text was sort of ominous, wasn't it? xD Keep leaving your thoughts! May the Force be with you.


	21. Chapter 20: Playing The Pawn

_Kaelir and I are both standing beside ourselves with anticipation to see what our readers think of this next chapter! And though it may seem that things are coming to a close, 'tis not so just yet. We've still got a good five or six chapters left for you. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Playing The Pawn**

_That's all it takes: one lonely, naive man desperate to show off... then give him a puzzle and watch him dance._

Almost immediately after John had related that nothing of consequence appeared to have occurred, Sherlock left the rather stifling atmosphere of the little room and instead made his way back outside to the street. There were fewer cars passing by now that the dark, early hours of the morning had arrived - not that it really mattered to him at this point. All of his attention was focused inward, running over the strange and rapid series of events which had led him here.

Sherlock could not rid himself of a nagging little feeling, almost an instinct, that something was out of place. This whole trail laid down by Moriarty had been a somewhat engaging diversion, admittedly, but in the end... what had been accomplished? What was the _point?_ Just another game, another way to keep the consulting detective running around for the sheer entertainment of it? But it couldn't be that simple; Moriarty never did anything without a _reason_...

The only clue left now was the girl herself.

Turning up his coat collar against the cool night air, Sherlock pulled his phone out. It was a slim chance, he knew - the child had not publicly been reported missing to any authorities, but she had to have come from _somewhere_. There was only one person he could think of who might be able to obtain that information, probably by less well-known channels.

Frowning down at the little screen, he sent off a text to Mycroft with a picture of the girl attached.

_Any idea who this is?_  
_SH_

The reply came only a few seconds later - positively unusual for Mycroft, who rather despised texting.

_Yes. Come speak in person. IMMEDIATELY._  
_M_

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, staring at the surprisingly quick and rather vehement response. His brother obviously considered this to be extremely important, then - he couldn't remember the last time Mycroft had bothered to capitalise an entire word.

_On my way._  
_SH_

* * *

For many minutes after sending the reply to his brother, Mycroft had continued to stare hard at the image on his phone, his brow deeply furrowed and his other hand clenched in his pocket. After that, he began pacing, walking up and down the length of his study with his hands clasped behind his back and a look on his face that would have made a thundercloud start searching for a new line of work. Every so often he shot a glance toward the door or out one of the tall, thin-framed windows, but always he would turn his eyes to the floor again, as though seeking answers that weren't there.

It was only when the study door was abruptly pushed open again that Mycroft ceased his pacing, and in the second that followed he was moving quickly toward it, already speaking. "Where did you find her?" His voice was sharp and urgent, and underneath, an abnormal note of confusion.

Sherlock eyed his brother calculatingly as he took a few steps into the room and shoved the door closed again behind him. "You could start by telling me who she is," he answered. "Something wrong? I don't even remember the last time I saw you this... irate."

"Irate is no word for it," Mycroft muttered back, giving his brother a look that was an odd mix of agitation and resignation. "We only realised she was missing a few hours ago, and -" He broke off suddenly, fixing Sherlock with a very sharp stare. "And _you_, Sherlock, how is it that _you _are suddenly involved in this?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours," he retorted, taking in the other man's almost painfully obvious tension.

Mycroft let out his breath loudly. "Her name is Miranda Allen - which means nothing to you, I imagine, nor should it. Where did you find her?" The repeated question was louder this time.

"She was brought to a park about ten minutes from Baker Street by a mutual acquaintance of ours," said Sherlock, after a slight pause. Even knowing how agitated his brother was didn't make him any more inclined to cooperate - at least not to the point of total submission.

"Sherlock," his brother said warningly, his mouth a very thin line, "this is not the time for a round of _twenty questions_. Explain. _Now._"

Sherlock stiffened slightly at the other's tone. "If you want me to explain how I found her," he said softly, "then _you_need to first explain who she is - and why she's so important." But he could tell that Mycroft was already dangerously close to the end of his tether, which, while rather interesting in itself, meant that Sherlock wasn't going to be able to keep up such deliberate impertinence forever.

Mycroft drew in a very long, slow breath, his eyes going rather flat as he stared back at Sherlock; it was clear that he was just on the verge of shouting, and only many years of rigid self-control were preventing him from doing so. "I believe I just told you who she is," he replied, in a voice dangerously devoid of emotion. "If you're going to be so obstinate as to demand more - her father is one of our top agents in the Service. _Was_," he amended, in sudden disgust.

"Was?" repeated Sherlock sharply. "What happened?" From Mycroft's adjustment in tone and word choice, he gathered that the reason behind the verb's sudden tense change had not yet sunk in.

"He was killed," Mycroft replied simply, in the level tone he had long since mastered. "Less than an hour ago, from what I've been told."

_Less than an hour ago..._The significance of the timing did not go over Sherlock's head. He took a moment to ensure that his expression was as neutral as he could make it under the circumstances before glancing up again at his brother. "And why was he so important, then?" he asked, exhaling slowly.

From the way Mycroft's eyes were scanning his brother's face, he seemed to have picked up on something in Sherlock's reaction, but did not comment immediately on it. "Information, of course. I should think even you could figure that out, _obvious_as it is." He fell silent for a moment, abruptly turning to face one of the windows again. "Victor Allen had been undercover for many months, both domestically and abroad, before he contacted us again. I arranged to have him kept in protective custody until the knowledge he held could be put to proper use." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, no one knows what that knowledge was, now."

Sherlock felt his brow furrow, and he continued to stare hard at Mycroft's back when the other man looked away. "Protective custody..." he murmured, shaking his head slowly. "Something went wrong?" It didn't make sense - whatever faults Mycroft Holmes might have (and Sherlock could think of a lot), he was never careless. When he said something was protected, it was protected. So what had happened?

"Obviously," Mycroft answered, a sharp bite to his voice now, "or he would still be alive." He suddenly whirled on his heel again, facing Sherlock, and the expression on his face was very grim. "Now: tell me _exactly_how you came to be mixed up in this."

Rather taken aback by his brother's sudden movement, Sherlock moved a small step away, while most of him tried to maintain his composure. "I told you," he said cautiously. "The girl was brought to the park, where I was supposed to meet John..." His lip twitched slightly as he paused. "Instead, a certain James Moriarty showed up, with this unconscious child." He let out a short, frustrated sigh at the recollection, then went on, "He said she knew something that I needed to know..."

"Moriarty...?" The whispered word that came from Mycroft's lips was half question, half musing. Then he suddenly stiffened, and took a sharp step forward that completely counteracted the one Sherlock had take back moments before. The look he gave his brother was piercing.

"The only compromising information that Miranda Allen knew was a word - the one word that was the key to accessing her father. They arranged it secretly between them; even I don't know what it was."

Sherlock felt himself go suddenly still, and he let out a sharp breath that abruptly caught in his throat as Mycroft's gaze met his own. In the ensuing silence, his pulse seemed extraordinarily loud. It couldn't be... but no, it _had _to be...

_"With you, there's no such thing as coincidence."_

Sherlock's own words echoed mockingly in his mind. Everything - every hint, every little clue - was suddenly beginning to fall hopelessly into place. He stared at Mycroft, feeling stricken.

"Vienna." He could barely get the word out through dry lips, his brain whirling sickeningly. "That... that was the word..." He closed his eyes tightly.

The stare that Mycroft fixed his brother with then was burning. "And how do you know that?" he breathed. "How do _you_ know the word that led to the death of Victor Allen? Sherlock Holmes, _what have you done?_"

Sherlock shook his head numbly and swallowed hard, his mind still struggling to work out the full import of what had happened. "I didn't know," he managed to whisper, very quickly, and aware of how inane that sounded. "Moriarty... he told me that he had a gunman watching Mrs Hudson... and that this girl had the word that would call him off..."

But there was no gunman, there had never _been _a gunman... and in his own stupid ignorance, he had allowed Moriarty to manipulate him completely... Sherlock spun away from his brother, dropping his forehead into the palms of his shaking hands.

"She had the _word_ that allowed James Moriarty to kill her father," Mycroft corrected him harshly, turning on the spot to follow his brother's movement. There was an expression of barely-suppressed rage on his face now. "The word, if I am to understand your stuttering explanations, that _you gave to him_." Mycroft strode forward and in one deliberate movement wrenched Sherlock's hands away from his face. "And _you_, Sherlock - oh, let me guess: you were playing games again. You got so _caught up_ in your personal vendetta that you didn't even _think_ this might be more than just about _you_!"

Slowly, Sherlock raised his head, his hands almost rigid in his brother's grasp. There was an expression of something close to anguish on his face, a look of horror mixed with awful realisation, and behind it, a terrible anger that was on the verge of lashing out indiscriminately at anyone in its path - including Sherlock himself.

The consulting detective locked eyes with the other man for a moment, then abruptly jerked his hands away, at the same time turning his back again. He didn't know what he could say. A man with probably invaluable information had died because of him, but that wasn't even the worst part. What Sherlock could not escape was the fact that he had not only failed to hinder Moriarty in any way, but he had actually _helped _the man. He had been as much a pawn of the game as either John Watson or Miranda Allen.

If Mycroft saw the anguish in Sherlock's face, he gave no sign of it; his own features were tight with fury, and he didn't even react when Sherlock pulled himself roughly away.

"So - Moriarty played you like your own violin," the older brother spat out, each word distinct and sharp as a knife blade. "And you walked right into it and gave him _exactly_ what he needed, without even stopping to _think _-" He broke off, hands clenched, and started pacing again, this time in a slow circle around Sherlock.

"Moriarty may have singled you out as his special playmate, Sherlock, but that does _not_ in any way grant you immunity! Or were you possibly expecting that he would play by the _rules_?" Mycroft stopped suddenly, directly in front of Sherlock, his entire stance radiating hostility. "You've been manipulated beyond what even I thought possible - and I have seen the damage a man like James Moriarty can accomplish when he holds the right _pawns_."

"Don't - _don't _- tell me what I already know, Mycroft -" Sherlock screwed his eyes shut again, his body trembling with the effort of staying in one place, while at the same time he felt rooted there anyway. He could feel his brother stalking slowly around him, like a hunter examining the prey he had just cornered, and he flinched visibly when the other man's last few words lashed into him. Something inside him broke.

"_Leave me alone!"_Sherlock's voice was a hollow snarl. His eyes snapped open again, and he shoved Mycroft aside furiously, making for the door. It was as though the machinery of his brain had been caught fast by something, and was slowly overheating as it desperately tried to grind forward again.

"I won't - certainly not if doing so is tantamount to lending Moriarty a helping hand!" Mycroft's words cut sharply through the room, following Sherlock even as his brother took a furious step forward as if to go after him.

Oddly enough, the door to the study opened before Sherlock had even gotten to it. "Is everything OK in -"

John broke off, his expression slipping from puzzlement to deep concern in a matter of seconds as he looked from Sherlock's snarling features to those of Mycroft, which were tight and livid a few feet behind. Without even registering what was going on - and he honestly had no clue - John hurried forward, throwing out a hand to catch Sherlock's shoulder before he could leave the room.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded, looking between the brothers with a feeling of shock. He was perfectly well aware that the two did not get on well, but never had he seen them at such odds as he did now.

It was a mark of how deeply this series of unpleasant revelations had stung when Sherlock hardly even paused to register that John had just walked in. All he knew was that he wanted to get out of here, away from Mycroft, away from _anyone_, and he didn't really care what would happen if someone got in the way of that. Thus when John grabbed his shoulder, bringing his stiff strides to a sudden halt, Sherlock reacted almost on instinct; he tore himself out of the other's grasp and deliberately knocked his hand away, hard.

For a moment, John felt a surge of shock, but it did not last very long. His face set, he whirled around and caught hold of Sherlock's arm, pulling him deliberately back into the room. "I'm _serious_, Sherlock," he said grimly, his voice low and warning. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

"What's happened," called Mycroft, who had appeared content to simply watch the exchange, "is that my brother seems to have switched _sides_." His voice was practically dripping with bitter slowly, he came forward, and once again his eyes were locked on Sherlock. "Although - he's apparently too ignorant to have recognised the fact."

Sherlock only allowed himself to be dragged back beside John so that he could fix his brother with a murderous glare. Part of him was sure that the single thing keeping him from physically hurting Mycroft was his friend's hold.

"I - am not - his pawn," he breathed jerkily, his breath hissing from between clenched teeth.

Mycroft lowered his voice to match that of his brother. "Then why don't you stop _playing the part_?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

John opened his mouth to say something, but bit it back as he suddenly felt Sherlock go rigid within his grip. He tightened his hold; at any moment it felt as though Sherlock would try to break away from him and do - something - to his brother. "Sherlock..." he began in a low voice.

Sherlock, however, was completely ignoring anything John was trying to say; he had eyes only for Mycroft, and at the moment they were filled with something remarkably close to hatred. He started involuntarily, as though about to wrench himself free of his flatmate's grasp, but seemed to catch himself a moment later.

"Does this look like playing to you anymore, Mycroft?" he shot back, after several seconds of trying to find the right words.

"I'm afraid I can no longer tell when you're playing and when you're not, Sherlock, because it seems to amount to the same thing!" Mycroft had moved very close; their faces were only inches apart now, and John couldn't help notice the contrast - one pale, the other mottled with anger, but both tight and slightly desperate.

"Don't blame _me _for that!" Sherlock spat in reply, his features twisting. "I'm not the one who turned this into something more than a game!" He was breathing very hard now, and the trembling of his form was obvious.

Mycroft's reply was harsh. "I blame you for failing to _realise _it!"

Sherlock seemed to struggle with that for a moment, because in all honesty, he could think of no real response to what was essentially the truth of the matter. He _had _failed to realise it, and though he knew that Mycroft would not have fared any better, his mistake still felt like an open wound. Sherlock stared at his brother in agonised silence, then finally tore his gaze away, pulling himself from John's grasp in the same movement. Without another word he turned sharply and stalked away to disappear through the door.

John continued to watch Sherlock until he was out of sight; then, with a long, slow sigh, he turned back to Mycroft and gave him a hard, expectant look. "I think," he said, very quietly, "you'd better explain what's going on here."

* * *

We do _not_ have happy Holmes brothers on our hands now, do we? As always, your reviews are most appreciated! May the Force be with you.


	22. Chapter 21: Point Of No Return

****_The reactions to the previous chapter exceeded our expectations - thank you! And in our gratitude, here's some more tension for you. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Point Of No Return**

_You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much._

The flat was almost completely dark when Sherlock returned; it was only the faint orange glow from the street outside that allowed him to see at all. Frankly, he didn't care; in fact he rather preferred it this way, when there were fewer visual distractions. Upon arriving, he shed coat and scarf onto the first available surface and immediately began pacing the sitting room, extreme agitation evident in every move and gesture.

How could he have been so _blind? _In retrospect, it seemed obvious that Moriarty had been up to more than his usual maze-like schemes, so why hadn't he recognised this long before, even from the start? The answer, he realised after a moment, was simple - Moriarty hadn't given him a chance to stop and work it out. Sherlock pressed his hands against his eyes, so hard that he started seeing little points of light across the blackness of his vision. His ragged breathing sounded loud and panicked in the stillness of the flat.

_Moriarty played you like your own violin... _

Mycroft's accusations echoed like gunshots through Sherlock's mind, and no matter his rationalisations, he couldn't shake away the truth of the matter. Part of him had wanted this, had enjoyed it, the game that made his life worthwhile and coloured the world with a deeper thrill. It had been so long since he had any sort of real puzzle to work on, that after the initial shock of Moriarty's appearance had worn off, a bit of Sherlock had actually welcomed the other man's challenge, try as he might to suppress it. And now, Sherlock thought bitterly, he was reaping his reward for that...

It was only about ten minutes later that John shut the front door quickly behind him and began hurrying up the stairs, but he slowed suddenly as he reached the landing. The flat was still dark, but the door was open. Frowning, John took a few hesitant steps into the living room. It was taking his eyes a while to adjust to the unexpected dimness.

"Sherlock?"

Only when he became very still did he pick up on the faint sounds coming from by the hearth - or were they by the window? The sound of footsteps and heavy, agitated breathing became more evident the longer John listened, and they did not bode well. Forgetting even to take off his jacket, John walked forward, slowly, toward the dark form he knew was his friend.

"Mycroft... told me what happened." Probably the worst thing he could say right now, but he had to start someplace. "The girl - Miranda - she was told she could trust _Holmes_. She thought you were your brother." He bit his lip.

Sherlock felt another flare of fury at the mention of his brother, and barely managed to suppress the urge to throw something. Without replying he spun around and took a few more stumbling steps, in the opposite direction from his approaching flatmate. Every noise John made, every word, seemed to grate on his senses, but he didn't even have the patience to tell the other man to get the hell away from him.

John let out a low sigh, taking a few hesitant steps to follow his friend. After a moment of consideration, he reached out to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and found to his alarm that the other man was trembling violently - too violently for his own good. "Sherlock," he said again, "just - try to calm down. A little."

"_Don't_- tell me to be calm!" The words burst out suddenly, loud and shocking in the previously quiet atmosphere. Sherlock dragged John's hand from his shoulder and immediately paced away again, raking his fingers through his hair.

"You need to be," John replied sharply. He followed, determined not to let Sherlock brush him away like he had only a short time before."You're not helping yourself or anyone else like this."

Sherlock forced out an angry, explosive breath as he rounded suddenly on his friend. "No, the only person I'm apparently _helping _is Moriarty!" He glared furiously at John even though he could barely make out the other's features in the half-light filtering in through the windows.

John felt as though he had been slapped; he couldn't recall ever seeing Sherlock like this before. "Stop it," he said, low and urgently. "I'm not kidding, Sherlock, you _need _to calm down."

The only response Sherlock deigned to give was a ragged, wordless hiss. Once again he whirled around, this time pressing his fingers together against his lips. It was clear that he was on the verge of losing all self-restraint, and the frightening part was, he didn't even recognise that fact.

"Sherlock," John said, more loudly this time. Frustrated, he continued to move until he was facing his friend again. "Sit down." With one hand he indicated the sofa, then a chair - anything. "Please."

"_No_, I am not going to _bloody well _sit down!"

Sherlock stared down at his flatmate through widened but somehow hooded eyes. He had been forced to a halt by John's appearance in his path, and his shoulders were quivering with the effort of staying there.

John met his friend's eyes with a long, steady glance. Inwardly, his emotions were churning, but with the discipline of the soldier that he was he forced them down, preparing to deal with them later. Right now, he needed, in medical terms, to get Sherlock stabilised. "Don't make me force you, Sherlock, please," he said quietly. "You know I can, and I will if I have to."

"Just _leave - me - alone," _Sherlock gritted out, barely resisting the urge to shove John away again. He wasn't sure what would happen if the other man continued to be stubborn, but he did know that he didn't care, either.

Without hesitating this time, John put a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. "No."

John's touch on his shoulder was like the release of high pressure on a spring; for the third time in about half an hour Sherlock struck the other's hand away and barged past him. Words were no longer enough, no longer able to drain sufficient emotion and energy to keep him on the edge of control. Unthinkingly he snatched up a small dish lying on a table nearby and hurled the object as hard as he could against the wall; without even pausing to watch the impact, he stumbled over to the fireplace. His hands gripped the edge of the mantelpiece as he dropped his forehead onto the narrow ledge.

"How can you just _stand _there and expect me to be _calm?_" he breathed out after a long moment, his shoulders shaking to match the tremors of his voice.

"Well maybe that's too much to expect," John murmured softly, half to himself. He continued to watch Sherlock for a moment longer, as though to make sure that nothing would happen in the next minute or so, and then he suddenly turned on his heel and walked quickly up the stairs to his own room. Sherlock's agitation was getting out of hand, he reasoned grimly, grabbing his medical bag from its usual corner and tossing it onto the bed. If he wasn't capable of regaining control, it looked like John was going to have to do it for him.

It was approximately thirty seconds later when he returned to the living room, this time with a small syringe in hand. The tranquiliser wouldn't be enough to make Sherlock comatose by any means, but it would force him to stop putting both body and mind through the torture he seemed to be inflicting on them, and at the moment, that was all John cared about.

"Sherlock, come here." He wasn't bothering to try to conceal the syringe; Sherlock would have noticed it within seconds anyway.

Sherlock found that it took a surprising amount of effort to lift his head again and glance back at John. His eyes immediately narrowed, and he turned around fully, straightening at the same time. "Why?" he demanded, his gaze darting between his flatmate's set features and the syringe in the other's hand.

John let out his breath in a tight-lipped sigh. "Just... come here," he repeated. Carefully, he took a step forward.

"I told you to leave me alone," snapped Sherlock, tensing again. Whatever it was John had in that syringe, he was going to have no part of it.

So much for cooperation, John thought, with another exasperated sigh. Without warning he moved forward, crossing the room in a few quick strides and catching hold of Sherlock's arm with his free hand.

With an angry snarl, Sherlock immediately jerked his arm away and moved several paces to one side, his eyes slightly wild. "Get away!" he said furiously.

"No, you need this." Features set, John came forward again.

"I don't need anything from you!" The words burst from Sherlock's lips without conscious thought, born of a deeper level of his mind, where dark musings still swirled.

The words struck John like a physical blow, but he shook them off for the time being, and found himself that much more determined to get Sherlock under control before things spiralled completely out of hand. He didn't bother with talking now; almost without thinking, he caught his friend by the shoulder in a hard grip and shoved him roughly down into a sitting position on the edge of the sofa.

"Sherlock," he gritted out, glaring at the other man, "you are _not_going to win this one. I'm a doctor, remember? I know when and how to sedate people, and I've had them put up a hell of a better fight than you are."

Sherlock was actually surprised by the force John was able to employ in making him to take a seat on the sofa; so seldom did the other man resort to physical violence that Sherlock had rather forgotten how strong he could be when needed. But the consulting detective was only taken aback for those few short seconds. He wasn't about to submit just because John thought he had the advantage.

"Does that speech actually work on other people?" he shot back acidly, trying to drag his flatmate's hand away again.

John only clenched his hand harder over Sherlock's shoulder. "I've no idea, since I just had to make it up now," he forced out, trying to ready the syringe and maintain his balance at the same time - which wasn't exactly easy, given that Sherlock was doing his level best to shove John away again.

"John, if you don't let me up in the next three seconds -" The warning was rather hollow.

This time, John didn't even respond. Rolling his eyes slightly, he suddenly pressured Sherlock's shoulder even further and then jammed the needle into his friend's upper arm. If it made a hole in the shirt and jacket, well, that was Sherlock's problem, not his.

John kept his hand in place until he was sure the sedative had begun to work; then, slowly, he let his arm fall back to his side. "Not that I'm going to say I told you so, but - I did warn you." He couldn't keep the lingering traces of annoyance out of his voice.

Sherlock forced out a long breath, but did not reply, focusing instead on bring some order to the chaos that was his current mental state. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Part of him didn't want to think about what had happened, but the other side knew that he couldn't just block it out. He _needed_to think about, to understand it, no matter how painful that process might be.

With a low sigh, John sank onto the couch beside his friend. "Better?" he asked quietly, watching the other's face. Sherlock definitely seemed to be relaxing, though it was harder to tell whether he was fighting it or not.

"Depends on what you mean by 'better'," answered Sherlock tightly, a bite still evident in his tone. His eyes were closed.

"You know what I mean," John said, rather sharply. "At least you should."

Sherlock exhaled slowly before replying. "Physically, slightly better, yes," he admitted. His eyes snapped open again to stare at the ceiling. "Otherwise..."

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "There's no way you could have known," he said quietly, eyeing Sherlock in concern. He wasn't sure what else he could say, and even as the words left his mouth he had a feeling they wouldn't be taken as the comfort he meant them to be.

"That's the whole _point_, John!" Sherlock dropped his head again and hunched over, pressing his lips hard against his clenched hands. "There was no way I could have known because Moriarty _ensured_it. Always before, always, there was a way out - that was the game - but this... this was different..."

John frowned. "Sounds like you're saying that - that you're upset not so much because he's manipulating you, but because he's not, I don't know, playing by the rules, or something." For some reason, it had sounded much more concise in his head.

Sherlock let out a harsh sigh. His flatmate clearly didn't understand the issue here. Though, to be fair, Sherlock wasn't certain that he would be able to explain it.

"Both," he said finally, staring unseeingly at the empty air in front of him. "He changed the rules, or rather, bent them to suit his purposes - and then _used_me within that framework..." His jaw tightened again at the thought.

At that, John could not bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. His friend had not been the only one to be manipulated by Moriarty, though John wasn't sure if the other man was yet coherent enough to see beyond what had just happened. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

"That's what he does though, isn't it?" he pointed out quietly. "Everything unexpected."

"Unexpected, but never inevitable," came Sherlock's sharp reply. "Never a single straight path with only one possible ending - don't you see the _difference?_"

"I see that you do," John responded, his tone low and still very concerned. With a sigh, he ran both hands over his forehead before looking up again. "So what're you planning to do about it?"

Sherlock had to force out several breaths before he could admit his thoughts. "I don't know," he said eventually, his voice extremely soft. "But there is every chance of this happening again, now that Moriarty knows it worked once..." His voice twisted slightly as he bit off the last few words.

John was silent for a long moment. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that, or if there was anything he _could_say. Sherlock wasn't the kind of person to whom you could reel off platitudes and expect them to have some sort of effect. "You'd better try to get some sleep, Sherlock," he said finally, giving his friend a pointed look. He knew there were still things to be said, but he figured they could wait until tomorrow.

Sherlock made no immediate reply. His eyelids had dropped again, and he appeared to be deep in thought. There had to be a way to stop this, to check Moriarty's schemes before they got completely out of hand. A way to finish it, this game that was no longer a game...

A sudden, wordless whisper fell from his lips then, and Sherlock lifted his head slightly. "Ohh, Moriarty, you thought you had me there, didn't you?" he breathed to himself, unheeding of John's close presence. It was so simple, so obvious, and so utterly unexpected...

John blinked. "Sorry?" He gave Sherlock a strange, questioning look, for he wasn't sure he liked the expression on his friend's face.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment. "It seems as though the consulting criminal has made one rather large mistake," he murmured. "Though I doubt he sees it as such..."

"I don't understand," John said quickly, peering closer and trying to read Sherlock's expression. Sedative aside, his face seemed oddly calm for someone who had been verging on hyperventilation only minutes before.

"Neither does he, I expect," came the cryptic reply. Sherlock glanced over at John, his gaze flint-like. "I already explained that by pulling this little stunt, Moriarty changed the rules, and he knows that doing so allows me to do the same. But that is exactly what he thinks I'll do - look for another way to get around the boundaries that he's set as the playing field, or set boundaries of my own." He smiled thinly then. "So what do you think is the solution?"

"So, you..." John hesitated, trying to put into words what his mind was piecing together. "You don't do that... you - I don't know, stop looking for loopholes? But then - " He broke off again, shaking his head and trying to reason out what Sherlock was looking for. "So you don't play his game," he went on slowly. "You ignore him? But we've already seen you can't do that, Sherlock."

"Not ignore him, no," whispered Sherlock. "But there is another way to stop playing... go straight to the source...and end it."

Abruptly, he rose from the sofa and paced over to the fireplace, where to one side he could see the remains of the dish he had thrown in his fury. He stared down at the shattered pieces, and his expression, unseen by John, was almost frighteningly passive.

John looked up, following his friend's steps with a worrisome sense of foreboding. "What do you mean, end it?" he asked, more loudly. "Sherlock, you'd have to actuallly _kill _- oh, God."

He trailed off, staring at the other man with a look of dawning comprehension. "Is that it?" he asked, very softly.

"If you can think of any alternatives, I'd be happy to listen." Sherlock's tone was neutral, and this time he didn't turn around to look at his friend. He could tell that John was rather horrified by the idea, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Either way, it didn't matter, though. Sherlock had already set his mind, and nothing the other man might say was going to dissuade him.

Abruptly, John stood and walked over to stand just behind his flatmate. "And _how _exactly do you plan on doing this?" he asked sharply. "Just walk up to him?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, shrugging easily. "Approximately," he replied, knowing that John was unlikely to accept such a simple answer.

"Sherlock, are you being serious?" John folded his arms over his chest, staring in something close to disbelief. Was the sedative having a strange effect?

Drawing in a long breath, Sherlock finally turned to regard his friend. "Of course I am," he said quietly. The neutrality of his features was beginning to slip away, revealing beneath it a kind of deep, bitter anger. "I gave Moriarty fair warning that I wasn't going to play his game anymore, and predictably, he chose to ignore that. I'll only allow him to push me so far..."

"You were _dead _for six months!" John interrupted loudly, feeling a faint fluttering of panic that he couldn't quite explain. "That was thanks to Moriarty, remember? I don't want you taking this one step further and suddenly find out that this time it's - " He cut himself off at the last second, shaking his head helplessly.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, giving John a look that said he understood the other man's concern, but wasn't about to change his mind because of it. "Again, John, if you have another suggestion, feel free to let me know," he said, and there was an edge to his voice now. "But I am _not _going to play the puppet again, and I rather think you'd prefer not to be one any longer as well."

John flinched a little at that. Either Sherlock was extremely tactless, or he wasn't averse to making a very harsh point. Probably both, at that. "No, I don't have another suggestion," he snapped back. "I just... you don't know what's going to happen. If it will - work, or not." He was trying not to think what the _or not _really implied.

"Only one way to find out."

Sherlock pivoted on his heel, turning to face the fireplace again. "You should probably get some sleep," he suggested, rather pointedly. He wanted his flatmate out of the room before the other man could start prying into the more specific details of the plan forming in Sherlock's mind.

But John shook his head. "I can't," he answered. "I promised Mycroft I'd go back to the hospital and check in on the g - on Miranda." The name still sounded strange to him.

"What for?" was the quick retort. "You don't think he actually cares about her, do you?"

Pressing his lips together, John let out a tight sigh. "Even if he doesn't, I do," he said shortly. "In case you forgot, she's just lost her father."

"She obviously knew it was a risk, considering his line of work. She's not as pathetic as you seem to think." Sherlock was only half paying attention to his own words; the other part of his mind was focused on the more pressing problem of how to ensure that John, for once, stayed out of this upcoming encounter with Moriarty.

"Yes," John went on testily, "but someone's going to have to tell her exactly what happened, don't you think? And I _guarantee _she'll see it as her own fault."

"Not my problem," said Sherlock immediately, still speaking to the fireplace. "And not yours, actually, though I'm guessing you'll _make _it yours, one way or another."

John opened his mouth, closed it again, then took a deep breath. "I'll be back later," he stated shortly, biting back a much sharper retort. "Get some sleep if you can."

"John." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and fixed the other man with a level stare. "_Don't _tell Mycroft anything more than he already knows. I don't need him trying to interfere with this."

Already turned towards the door, John spared a brief glance back. "Don't need to worry about that," he said quietly. "He's been more informed than we have." Without waiting to see what kind of reaction this would get, he turned on his heel again and was gone a moment later.

* * *

As always, your comments are deeply appreciated particularly as we go through the final chapters. May the Force be with you.


	23. Chapter 22: No Final Round

_Well well well... looks like we've got all sorts of people trying to make things work in their favour here. Nice to see Moriarty again, innit? Things appear to be coming to a climax. Hope it's a satisfying one!_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: No Final Round**

_I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn... You want me to shake hands with you in hell - I shall not disappoint you._

Sherlock knew that he had to move quickly if he was to keep John out of the picture; the longer he waited, the more likely it was that his flatmate would be on the lookout. He knew John too well to trust that his friend would stay away even if ordered to do so, especially in light of the potential circumstances. And then there was Moriarty himself - the longer Sherlock abstained from action, the more time the criminal mastermind would have to consider what the other man could do.

With this in mind, Sherlock seized the first opportunity he got to leave the flat on his own, the very next evening. John had apparently gone out somewhere, and wasn't expected to return for a while. For a brief few moments, Sherlock pondered the possibility that his friend was making yet another check-up on Miranda Allen, which could prove a slight problem; but then he shook the idea from his mind. Even if John was at Bart's, he wouldn't likely be wandering around.

The consulting detective hailed a cab, absently giving his desired destination to the driver as he pulled out his phone. Unable to suppress a sense of grim satisfaction, he sent off a quick message that was sure to give the recipient a jolt of deja vu.

_Come and play._  
_Bart's Hospital rooftop._  
_For old times' sake._  
_SH_

The pause that came before the reply was just long enough for the answer to have been carefully considered.

_Oddly appropriate. _  
_And here I thought you'd be tired of playing._  
_JM _

Sherlock stared at the message for a moment, and then let out a soft breath of satisfaction as the corners of his lips twitched upward. Moriarty had no idea how truly he had just spoken.

* * *

Sherlock carefully pushed open the door that led out onto the flat roof of the hospital. The glint of the sinking sun shone briefly into his eyes before he turned his head to glance around, appraising the area. He took a few steps forward, clasping his hands behind his back, turning slowly in place before pacing away again. Good... the guest of honour hadn't arrived yet, which suited Sherlock perfectly.

He moved closer to the edge of the roof, leaning slightly to look down at the street below. It was all so keenly familiar, almost hauntingly so. But, as Moriarty had put it... oddly appropriate, at the same time. He lifted his head again into the rush of a cool evening breeze. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly, and waited.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when the rooftop door was pushed carefully open again, by a hand that shoved almost contemptuously at the heavy metal. The figure stepped deliberately, and yet delicately, onto the roof and let the door shut with an audible sound behind it.

Moriarty's face was inscrutable as usual, though as he stepped into the light he did cast an oddly appreciative glance at their surroundings. Only when it seemed that his eyes had taken in the entire cityscape did he flick a glance toward Sherlock, and it was brief and appraising. It was the kind of look that took in everything in a moment without even seeming to.

"This is new," Moriarty remarked absently, tilting his head to glance up at the darkening sky. "Okay, not _new_, exactly, but –" He gave Sherlock a sudden, sharp look that might have been slightly amused, though it was hard to tell. "I wasn't expecting to be able to say _thank you _in person."

Sherlock turned slowly to regard the other man, dragging his gaze almost with reluctance from its contemplation of the panoramic view of London as the city fell under shadow. His expression was strange - hard, but at the same time looking as though he was struggling with some inner turmoil. He stared at Moriarty for several long, silent moments before speaking.

"Would it make any difference, really, if it's in person or not?" he asked quietly.

Moriarty shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets and pacing forward a few steps more. "A little text message can only say so much. It _is_impersonal." His tone was rather bored.

Sherlock watched the other man move closer, feeling the light wind tugging insistently at his coat and hair. "Would you prefer a more eloquent method of communication, then?" he said, his voice deceptively easy, while his body had already begun to tense.

"Well..."

Moriarty sounded as though he were struggling to hold back a laugh, and indeed when he looked back to Sherlock, he was smiling in that odd half-surprised way of his. "I have be honest with you, Sherlock, I'm _dying _of curiosity to know what this is all about. You should be pleased."

It was that game of his, that pretense of relaxation and familiarity, each word delivered entirely without self-consciousness. He had stopped walking again, this time holding his position by the very edge of the far wall. Seeming very much at ease, he regarded Sherlock expectantly.

"Oh, I _am_ pleased," said Sherlock softly then, turning slightly so that he was facing the other man again. An icy little smirk found its way onto his lips. "After all, I did _help _you - so it's rather nice to know that you've decided to return the favour and show up here." He tilted his head. "Very obliging of you... I'm grateful."

The smile dropped almost instantly from Moriarty's face, and suddenly he was regarding Sherlock with a cold, burning calculation. "Least I could do," he answered slowly, his narrowed eyes never leaving the other man's face.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a ripple of satisfaction. Always before, it seemed, Moriarty had held the advantage in any encounters between the two of them, marginal though it may have been. But not this time.

"So," he said after a moment, raising his voice to a conversational level again. "Have you figured it out yet?" The smirk was still there, but it was tighter now, and more ominous.

Moriarty had gone very still, his features hardening further as he held Sherlock's gaze. "If I haven't, I'm sure you'll be willing to oblige."

"Go on," replied Sherlock, deliberately looking away, his voice almost teasing. He began pacing slowly back and forth. "Surely you can't have missed something so..." He halted suddenly, turning his head to glance at Moriarty as he finished, "...obvious." He started pacing again.

This time, Moriarty said nothing, though his head turned, very slowly, as he followed Sherlock's movement. A tightening of something beyond annoyance was beginning to show in the lines around his eyes and mouth, but he hadn't lost control. Not yet.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, pivoting again to face the other man. "No?" he asked lightly, taking in the signs of irritation beginning to show in Moriarty's face and poise. "Pity." Almost without his realising it, the smile disappeared from his own features. "Shall I tell you then?"

There was a definite spark of anger in Moriarty's eyes now, but he censored it well. "You do know how to take your time about these things," he responded, in a voice ominously low.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment, eyes narrowed. He couldn't deny having enjoyed this little banter, knowing that, for once, he held the higher cards. But he'd had his fun. It was time to end the charade.

With one fluid, easy movement, Sherlock pulled the handgun from under his coat and leveled it at Moriarty. His grip on the weapon was steady, and he raised his chin slightly, staring at the other man impassively.

Moriarty's gaze flickered in time with the handgun as he watched it come up; he straightened, staring at the weapon, and it was difficult to tell whether his expression was anger, surprise, disdain, or some strange combination of all three. "Oh..." he said softly. "Oh, _this_..." He seemed to be speaking to himself as a line appeared between his brows.

"I did tell you," said Sherlock quietly. "When you first came to Baker Street all those weeks ago - I told you there would be no final round." His voice took on a steely edge. "Did you honestly expect me to keep _playing _with you after this latest escapade?"

"It was almost too easy." Moriarty's glance slid from the gun to Sherlock's face. "One clue, a few threats... and this" - he gestured carelessly at the weapon aimed towards him - "this is your reaction?" An eyebrow went up. If he had been taken off-guard, he did not show it, but there was a warning tone in his voice that had not been there before.

"What were you expecting, then?" Sherlock reached up to steady the gun with his other hand, watching Moriarty through calculating eyes. "Something a bit more in line with how I may have reacted previously?"

"Sherlock, if you're anything, it's predictable." Moriarty took a step forward, and then he laughed. "I'm still not sure you actually realise how easy it was - all of this. _Do_you realise it, Sherlock Holmes?" He spread his hands, but did not wait for an answer before continuing, and when he did, it was with an air of self-congratulation and mockery.

"Well, let's see. You've been gone for - what, six months now, bit longer? That's a long time, Sherlock, a long time with no games, no puzzles, no_ anything._ Honestly, you did half the work for me just with that. You were _ready. _You just needed someone to set the board for you." Moriarty tilted his head toward Sherlock with a smile. "You've got to admit I did that pretty well." Now he began pacing back and forth, hands in his pockets, never moving closer or further but always threatening to do so.

"I'm not going to waste my time trying to deny your obvious talent," replied Sherlock, his lip curling slightly. "I merely invited you here to point out an extension of that - your overconfidence."

Moriarty merely laughed again. "It's nothing compared to yours, though, really it's not. Watching you running from one little hint to the next - and John was _so _worried, wasn't he? That I'd set someone to watching your flat... it was utterly brilliant."

Sherlock clenched his teeth, his previous grim joviality all but faded. "Only to a point," he gritted out, tightening his grip on the gun. "You've overstepped things this time."

"Oh, have I? And how does it feel, Sherlock Holmes, now that you've actually helped me? There were other ways I could've done it, of course, but when I realised who she'd talk to - oh, that was too good to pass up."

"Enough!" snarled Sherlock, and without even thinking he cocked the handgun in his grasp. "Trying to get me to help you was your last mistake, Moriarty." His voice was harsh, menacing.

A wind buffeted past them, dark and chill, setting both men's coats flapping about their legs. In the dimming light, Moriarty's features became even more surreal, and the glint of his eyes still held something strange and threatening despite the obvious odds against him. Even now, he did not appear greatly troubled, and his pacing continued, back and forth, along the edge of the rooftop.

"OK, so you shoot me - maybe even kill me." Moriarty spread his hands, looking pointedly around at the rooftop. "What then, Sherlock? What happens to you when the game is done?"

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock retorted, keeping his gaze fixed on Moriarty. "You won't be around to care either way." Even though he had expected as much, the other man's casual manner was beginning to irritate him.

"And neither will you."

Almost with a smile now, Moriarty took yet another step forward. His eyes were boring into Sherlock's - hard, knowing, almost fearless, and flickering with that peculiar brand of careless, world-weary mockery that was so distinctive. "You didn't really expect that I came here tonight with no precautions," he went on, more loudly this time. "Please tell me you weren't _that _careless. I do have expectations, you know."

"No, of course not," answered Sherlock, forcing his voice back to cordiality and, shifting position slightly to as to keep Moriarty in full view. "I wouldn't be so rude as to demean your intelligence that much."

"But you're willing to take that risk." It was a statement, but with the vaguest suggestion of surprise behind it.

"Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have asked you here in the first place." Sherlock continued to eye the other man calmly, though not casually by any means. He could feel his pulse quickening in dreadful anticipation.

Moriarty frowned slightly, as though trying to straighten it all out in his head. "So... you're willing to die as long as I do, too," he said quietly, musingly. "You will shoot me, _knowing _that you'll be only seconds behind me." He glanced up again. "I don't know if I should be appalled or flattered."

"_Knowing?" _repeated Sherlock. "Suspecting, perhaps, but I have yet to see any proof that your part of this is anything but a convincing bluff. Not that it really matters, I suppose," he added thoughtfully. "Bluff or truth, it's not going to change my mind." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "You should have known better than to cross this line."

For a few tense seconds, there was only the sound of the wind whistling between them, and, muffled in the background, the steady drone of the London commuter population. And then, seemingly out of nowhere -

"No."

John's voice was hard and steady as he suddenly pushed open the rooftop door, gun held in both hands, and moved with swift practice to stand only a few feet from Sherlock. There was a grim, deadly look on his face as he kept the weapon trained on Moriarty's head.

He had known, when he saw Sherlock abruptly hail a cab outside the flat, that his friend was making his move – the final move, as he probably thought of it. John also knew that Sherlock underestimated him in some respects, and he had seriously doubted, as he watched the cab slide away, that the detective expected to be followed.

That was when he had called Mycroft.

Regardless of what had happened with Victor Allen and his daughter, Mycroft had never wanted to see his brother endangered any further. In less than twenty minutes, he and John had put together the rudiments of a counteraction, and though John was less than pleased with the final result, he knew, after going back over in his mind exactly what Moriarty had done to them, that it was the only way.

All the same, it had been hell standing there, forcing himself to stay calm, to keep quiet and just _listen _to the two great minds engaging in their verbal duel on this terribly familiar site when all the while he knew Mycroft's people might be just a second too late. But it wasn't unexpected. Whether Sherlock had meant it or not, John had seen the look on his face the previous night, and he had known then that his friend would consider even death a fair price to pay for Moriarty's demise.

John was not going to let that happen. Not again.

Sherlock's had eyes widened considerably when he heard John's voice; but the look he threw was directed at Moriarty, and it was one of suspicious calculation. Quickly, he turned his head back to see John approaching, the other man's face as dark as Sherlock had ever seen it. Forcing himself to maintain his steady composure, the consulting detective watched stonily until his flatmate was only a few feet away.

"John," he gritted out, still keeping a wary eye on Moriarty, "what are you doing here?" He had to fight to suppress a flare of fury at his friend's interference; because whether John knew it or not, his sudden appearance had effectively destroyed Sherlock's plan. There had been several very specific reasons why Sherlock had wanted to ensure that this little rendezvous was a two-man party - but no longer.

John let out his breath very slowly and chanced a quick look at his friend. "Saving your life."

"It's not your life to -" Sherlock started to snarl, but then he broke off suddenly. Across from them, Moriarty had remained quiet, but from the way his eyes were moving, he had missed nothing of what had happened. When John looked his way, he suddenly smiled again, mockingly, and mouthed _thank you _before turning his gaze expectantly back to Sherlock.

Sherlock let out a harsh breath, narrowed eyes darting between John and the consulting criminal. Was Moriarty's thanks just due to the other man's blundering in and upsetting the delicate balance of the situation - or was there something more substantial behind that innocent phrase?

The detective set his jaw, trying to shake away the sudden flood of doubt and dark suspicion threatening to overtake his thoughts. This all depended on Moriarty now, on whether or not he had been bluffing; and Sherlock found that he didn't really care for the new odds.

Looking suddenly much more relaxed, Moriarty spread his arms wide. "Go on, then," he called out. "You were going to kill me, weren't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock made no reply, only glared at the other man, refusing to turn his head again and look at John. John, who had ruined it all... The gun was still held steady in Sherlock's hands, but now he wasn't sure he could risk pulling the trigger, not with his flatmate standing so vulnerable beside him...

"Admit it, Sherlock - you've lost this round." There was something bizarrely close to sympathy in Moriarty's tone and expression. "You pull that trigger and John will die. That's simple enough, isn't it?"

John looked between them, forcing down another wave of panic. How they were going to get safely out of this one he wasn't sure; his eyes kept darting involuntarily to the rooftops opposite, as though sight alone could tell him the location of Moriarty's gunmen that, this time, he knew were there. He flashed his friend a tight, anxious glance that probably wasn't even noticed. He knew one thing, though: Sherlock would not shoot now.

Sherlock clenched his teeth and shifted deliberately so that his aim was centered. "Slight correction," he hissed. "I pull this trigger and _you _will die." He saw the look John gave him, but couldn't bring himself to care; the fury he had felt the previous night was surfacing again.

But Moriarty simply continued to smile and shook his head. Then, very deliberately, he reached beneath his coat, and a moment later there was a sleek handgun aimed directly at John.

"The best thing you can do," Moriarty said, softly and distinctly, "is to _know_ when you are _beaten._" His lips parted in a sudden smile. "Checkmate, Sherlock."

* * *

Just couldn't resist another cliffhanger, especially when it helps our readers to come back ready for more! Thanks in advance for your comments! May the Force be with you.


	24. Chapter 23: Paralysis

_Just when you think the tension and suspense can't get any worse... they do. =P And we both really appreciate you folks putting up with it - thank you! On another note, we broke one hundred reviews last chapter, which really thrills us! You all get cookies and kudos for your wonderful comments._

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**Chapter Twenty-Three: Paralysis**

_You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home there._

Sherlock felt his grip on his own weapon tighten instinctively, but he forced his hand to relax again - barely. He swallowed hard, looking slowly between John and Moriarty. Three guns, two people willing to take the risk of dying - but it only took the odd one out to change the entire dynamic.

And still Sherlock didn't lower his own gun. He couldn't believe that Moriarty had come out on top, even in this situation, which he had initiated and which had, for once, granted him the advantage. Stubbornly, almost desperately, he refused to stand down and thus admit that he had lost.

John's face was still set in that grim expression, but he could feel the tension of the situation escalating with each second that passed. The gun looked strange in Moriarty's grip; the man who had so often worked behind the scenes, ran his schemes with his hands around his phone or in his pocket, who had disdained personal interested until he had found in Sherlock Holmes the perfectly-matched opponent. Now, they were at something of a stalemate, until either Sherlock or Moriarty decided to make the next move - and John couldn't help hoping that Sherlock would back down.

"I'm not going to prove to you that there's someone else out there waiting, Sherlock," Moriarty went on easily, "but I _dare _you to take that chance now. Go on."

_It's not a bluff_, John wanted to say, glancing again at Sherlock without turning his head. _They're out there, Sherlock, they're out there waiting - _

Moriarty had paused, looking between them, giving them time. But when no one moved, he gave a disappointed shrug. "No? In that case, here's how we're going to run this little thing. Sherlock - gun down, if you please." He demonstrated with a twitch of his finger.

Breathing quickly now, Sherlock only continued to stare at Moriarty. His hand twitched slightly, as though yearning to just fire the gun it was grasping and watch the other man fall to the ground. He still refused to meet John's gaze. He knew he was risking one or both of them getting killed, but he wasn't ready to give Moriarty the satisfaction of ordering him around.

Out of the corner of his eye, John gave Sherlock a very sharp, worried glance. "Sherlock," he breathed, trying to keep a steady watch on Moriarty at the same time (not to mention the gun levelled at his own head). "Sherlock, just - do it." If Moriarty had planned to kill them once the tables were turned, he would have done so already. The danger now came not from the consulting criminal, but from those who awaited his orders.

With a slightly exasperated breath, Moriarty cocked the gun in his hand. "Now, Sherlock," he commanded testily.

John's willingness to comply with the situation grated harshly across Sherlock's senses. He shot his flatmate a dangerous look before turning his head back to regard Moriarty. A long moment passed. Then, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Sherlock very slowly pulled his gun back and dropped his arms to his sides.

John exhaled audibly, but Sherlock's compliance didn't seem to be in keeping with what Moriarty had in mind. "And when I say _down_, Sherlock," the consulting criminal added, in a tone that was a cross between warning and resignation, "I mean _down_." He tilted his head pointedly toward the cement at Sherlock's feet.

The expression that twisted Sherlock's pale features was one of helpless fury. As slowly as he had initially dropped his weapon, he bent down and laid the handgun at his feet; and as he straightened again, he fixed Moriarty with a murderous glare.

"Good, better," Moriarty said approvingly. "Now watch how this works - " Without changing expression he shifted his arm until his own gun was pointing at the now-unarmed detective. "Your turn, Doctor Watson, if you'd be so kind."

His breathing low and shallow, John glanced between Sherlock and Moriarty. He hesitated, even though he knew he had no choice now. Pressing his lips together in a terse line, he carefully mimicked Sherlock's movements and placed the gun on the roof in front of him. His whole body was tense, waiting, just waiting now that neither of them had a weapon; the soldier in him balked at how vulnerable they were, but also knew the need for compliance. He didn't _think _that Moriarty was interested in killing them right that minute, and yet that didn't stop him from fearing the worst.

Moriarty smiled, ever so slightly, before his features hardened again. "Now," he said musingly, "I could just shoot you both and make the world an easier place to work in..." He caught John's expression at that and let out a soft, barely-recognisable laugh. "But I think you both know I'm not going to do that."

"Aren't you?" Sherlock forced out, his voice very quiet. "Not going to return the favour I was offering you?" He was sure that Moriarty would see past the dare and brush it off, but at the moment, goading the other man was all that Sherlock had; and frankly, he didn't care how dangerous that was right now. It was as though his very brain had frozen over, preventing recognition of consequences, only allowing each moment, second by second, to filter through.

From beside him, John drew in a sharp breath and chanced a quick, darting look at his friend out of the corner of his eye. What the hell was Sherlock playing at, practically inviting Moriarty to kill them both? He felt his pulse quicken as his heart hammered more insistently against his chest, reminding him of the peril of their position right now.

"No, I'm not," Moriarty answered mildly, lifting one shoulder in an easy shrug, though the gun remained steadily trained on Sherlock. "That would be too easy, Sherlock, for both of us. However, I _have_got plans for later and I don't like to be rushed, so - time for you to be on your merry way." He gestured slightly with the weapon, towards the door.

"You expect me to just walk away?" breathed Sherlock, feeling his hands clenching spasmodically at his sides.

Moriarty sighed and turned his eyes briefly to the dark sky. "Yes, but if that's a problem I can just kill John now." He demonstrated by almost lazily shifting his aim.

John froze in the middle of directing another disbelieving look at Sherlock. Without moving his head he let his eyes dart between the other parties involved here - Sherlock, Moriarty, Moriarty's gun - silently calculating the odds. They weren't good - stacked in Moriarty's favour.

Sherlock also glanced between the weapon and its potential victim, appearing to be struggling against an insane urge to knock the gun from Moriarty's grasp. His shoulders had become rigid as he fought to control himself. He knew, vaguely, that he had lost now, but all the same, he could hardly comprehend the incredible effort it took to slowly turn his back and, after a long pause, take one step, then another, away from Moriarty.

"Go on, Sherlock. I want to see that door close behind you."

There was a tone of enjoyment in Moriarty's voice now, and John felt his pulse quicken even further. It looked like he had gotten Sherlock out of this, but he himself was nowhere near out of danger.

Sherlock stopped a few feet from the door as Moriarty's words reached him. He could feel his body shaking with suppressed rage, but he couldn't bring himself to turn, or even glance back.

"John comes with me." His tone was flat, almost commanding.

But the consultant criminal shook his head slightly. "John comes when I say, actually. It is _so_ nice to have someone who obeys orders for once, and you don't _really _expect me to let you dictate the terms now, do you?"

Something seemed to catch in Sherlock's breathing, and he went very still. What did the other man mean, when he said that John came when he said so? His brain was beginning to feel like someone was slowly clamping a vise around it, as though trying to see how much pressure it could take before being forced to give in.

He pivoted slightly, snapping his head around to look back. "I said he comes with me!" he snarled. It was almost as though John wasn't even there - all Sherlock could see was Moriarty's mocking features.

Moriarty's finger tightened very, very slightly on the trigger. "OK, he comes with you," he agreed softly. "One more body won't make much of a difference in this place."

"No!" Sherlock clenched his jaw as soon as the involuntary word escaped his lips, and he inhaled sharply, as though to retract what he had said. He was breathing very shallowly now, his eyes moving slowly between the two other men.

John felt as though his entire body had been paralysed; he wasn't certain if he could move even if he had wanted to. The scene was oddly, frighteningly familiar: two brilliant, dangerous chess players, and the pawn caught between them, just waiting for the move that would decide its fate. His mouth had gone dry a long time ago, and now he felt as though he could barely breathe as the tension continued to mount. All the same, he felt a cold shiver run down his spine at Sherlock's sharp refusal.

"Ohh..." Moriarty played with the word as though it were a toy. "Oh, so... you're perfectly fine with dying _yourself_, but throw _John _a little loop... That's sweet, Sherlock, really it is." A smile, brief and falsely surprised. Eyes boring into Sherlock's, he once again nodded towards the door. "Now time to go."

A slight spasm crossed Sherlock's pale features. For a short, dangerous moment, he didn't move; and then abruptly he spun on his heel and walked the last few steps to the door. Seconds later, the hem of his coat had disappeared behind the heavy portal, which latched shut again behind him with a muffled crash.

* * *

_Tick, tick, tick…_

With each passing second, John's mental clock was sending him distress signals. Sherlock's sudden absence was sharp, hollow, as though gouged out with a knife, and he was acutely aware that there was nothing, nothing to prevent Moriarty from shooting him right there and then, except perhaps Moriarty's own twisted sense of play.

Fighting back the urge to start shouting – anything to break the abrupt silence – John let his eyes dart over to the other man's face.

But Moriarty said nothing.

In fact, he looked rather bored; the gun was still in his hand, but the finger pressed against the trigger had relaxed again, as though the threat of the weapon were a last-minute afterthought rather than something dire and imminent. He met John's gaze squarely, and then – shrugged. Just _shrugged_.

John opened his mouth. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked hoarsely, his lips barely moving.

Another chill breeze whipped past them as Moriarty's mouth twitched sideways in a half-smile. "Just a bit longer, Doctor Watson," he said, and John swallowed hard. What the hell did that mean?

* * *

Sherlock hardly saw where he was going as he descended the stairs and made his way through the corridors of the hospital. His strides were automatic, both dragging him down and speeding him away, forcing him to flee. Strange images were flashing across the vision of his mind, and no matter how much he wanted to stop them, the flood had finally been released - there was no holding it back this time.

_"I only wanted to stop by and see how things are getting on, you see."_

_"You wanted to see how your _investment _is doing."_

_"That all depends on you, Sherlock. It's just part of the game. If I gain an advantage, well - it will only be because you've given it to me."_

Sherlock shook his head roughly, as though trying to clear the memories. For the second time in less than twelve hours, he found himself standing on the pavement outside Bart's. A soft hiss escaped from his lips and was immediately tugged away into silence by a cold draft of air that rattled past him; he closed his eyes, still shaking from more than the air's chill.

_"And do try to keep yourself out of trouble, John; Sherlock goes all to pieces when he thinks you're in danger."_

Why, _why_had Moriarty taken such an interest in John's well-being? Not simply because it got to Sherlock, no... it could never be that simple...

_"He's Moriarty - he likes messing with - people's heads -"_

_"_A Tale of Two Cities_, you said? Oh - yes, on hold for John Watson."_

He had even put the damn _book_in John's name...

_"I...can't tell you."_

_"Can't tell me? Why?"_

_"Because I've been told not to."_

_Don't forget._  
_JM_

Sherlock let out another harsh breath as he played through the scenes in double time. The screen of John's phone seemed to burn in front of his eyes, making him blink even though his eyelids were still closed.

_Don't forget... don't forget..._

_"All I have to do is make the right move, with the right piece..."_

He went back through every moment, every conversation they had had since that text. Sherlock's features seemed to contort as he tried to focus on the images of John which his memory had preserved. Every expression, every movement, every word that had issued from his friend's lips, he brought back to the surface and scrutinised as his hands balled into fists in the pockets of his coat. And the more recollections he raced through, the more he could feel something inside him tightening.

_"There's no way you could have known."_

John had said it so calmly... too calmly? And then, just minutes ago, when he had suddenly appeared on the roof... and thus ruined Sherlock's desperate plan in his ignorance... but was it ignorance? Or had it been something more willful?

_Thank you..._

Sherlock watched again as Moriarty's lips formed those two sinister, soundless words and blew them gently back to John. The consulting detective slowly opened his eyes, and immediately the icy wind darted into them, stinging through the confused fury which was now clearly evident in their depths.

* * *

John was still shaking and trying to regain control of his lungs and limbs by the time he made it to the front door of the hospital. Fear that something had happened to Sherlock had been growing steadily in his mind as he had hurried as fast as he dared down stairs and through corridors, and so when he caught sight of the familiar long-coated figure standing out there on the sidewalk, he breathed an explosive sigh of relief.

"Sherlock - oh, God - Sherlock - " He stumbled to an abrupt halt just behind his friend, closing his eyes for a moment. "You're - you're ok?" The question came out haltingly as he drew in another sharp breath.

"What did he say?"

Sherlock's voice was cold; the sweeping flood of emotional turmoil seemed to have reached a blockage somewhere between his brain and his lips, so that only stark, flat anger was able to come out. He didn't turn when John staggered up to him. He wasn't certain that he wanted to see that familiar face, so innocently confused, and so insidiously capable of hiding things behind its mask.

The tone of Sherlock's words was like a cold, hard slap to the face. John straightened, looking very quickly at what little he could see of his friend's profile, then took two more steps, circling, so he could look up into the other man's face. What he saw there made him want to flinch.

"What do you - he didn't say - anything, really," he replied, blinking in confusion.

And it was true; Moriarty had remained eerily silent as they stood in the darkness on that rooftop, offering only a quiet, "Off you go, Doctor Watson" after some certain interval that only he knew the meaning of. Feeling terribly exposed, John had cautiously backed away until he reached the door, leaving both his and Sherlock's weapons behind, and what had happened to Moriarty after that, he didn't know.

"Of course not. I should have _known_." Sherlock deliberately averted his face as John looked up, and then pivoting sharply, he began to walk away along the side of the street. His hands were still clenched in his pockets, mirroring the hard set of his jaw and stiffness of his gait.

John went very still for a moment. "Sherlock - " He had a very bad feeling, something he couldn't quite put his finger on... but Sherlock obviously had something on his mind. John hurried after him, catching his arm a moment later. "What do you mean by that?"

"You know _perfectly _well what I mean, John!"

Sherlock halted suddenly, rounding on his flatmate and pulling his arm from the other's grasp. He glared at John for a moment, wanting nothing more than to start shouting at the man; but still the words wouldn't come. Part of him still didn't want to acknowledge what the rest of his brain could no longer afford to ignore. He whirled away again and continued walking, struggling to maintain his composure.

"No, I don't!" John called, irritated now, and more than that, he was worried. Again, he quickened his pace to keep level with Sherlock. "Okay, seriously, Sherlock, what are you on about?"

Sherlock's breath hissed out from between his teeth as he replied. "Either Moriarty has trained you _very _well indeed, or you're actually as stupid as you're acting. Neither option makes me inclined to continue talking to you right now." With that he lengthened his stride, at the same time scanning the street in search of the nearest cab.

"Sherlock, what the _hell _are you talking about?"

This time, however, John did not move to follow his friend. He seemed rooted in place on the sidewalk, staring in utter disbelief at the man walking away from him. Sherlock thought... that he was working for Moriarty? Working _with _him?

Biting his lip, John drew his jacket closer about his body, wrenched out his mobile, and speed-dialed Mycroft.

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We're so cruel to our favourite detective and blogger, putting them through all this... I admit. It's fun. xD Review review review, please and thank you? May the Force be with you.


	25. Chapter 24: Faith

There you are, my faithful readers - a chapter with closure, and an end to some of the suspense! Hope it makes up for some of the agony we've put you through. =P

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**Chapter Twenty-Four: Faith**

_You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable._

Within seconds of returning to 221B, Sherlock had locked himself in his room, something he rarely bothered to do. Usually when he wanted to be alone, the simple fact that the door was closed would be enough to make John leave him be; but he could tell this time that it wouldn't work that way. Even through his own tint of anger, Sherlock had seen the expression on his friend's face, that stubborn look which said that the other man wasn't about to just let this slide. And that was something he was adamantly disinclined to deal with at the moment.

Pacing back and forth unseeingly, Sherlock remembered the last time he had stormed back to the flat in such an agitated state - less than a day ago, though it felt far deeper in the past. At least he was slightly more in control of himself this time. Not that it was really a great comfort.

Sherlock dropped onto the edge of his bed, forcing himself to take a few calming breaths as he closed his eyes, but it wasn't proving easy to dispel that awful feeling enveloping his brain. The memories still lingered, though they were less vivid than when they had first assaulted him. He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to block out visual distractions. He needed to be calm, rational, and composed, needed to be able to think _clearly_... and he didn't at all care for how difficult he was finding that right now.

"Sherlock!"

Fifteen minutes later, John pounded his fist heavily on the door to his friend's room, harder than he intended, but that didn't matter, really. So what if his hand ached in a few hours? It would be a small price to pay if he could find out what was going through Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock!" he yelled again. "I'm serious - unlock the door! We need to talk, _now_!"

Sherlock lifted his head slightly in response to the banging, just enough to shoot a glare the door, as though the look would actually go through something so solid and hit the person beyond. Without replying, he dragged himself backward a bit more and collapsed onto his back. One hand was clenched into a fist near his head, while the other dug unconsciously into the sheets by his side. He drew in a long, shaking breath and closed his eyes again. Maybe, just maybe, John would take the hint and go away.

But he doubted it.

Jaw tightening at the complete lack of response from the other side of the door, John again banged his fist against the wood. The side of his hand was beginning to go numb already. "Not kidding, Sherlock! Let me in!"

Exhaling loudly again, Sherlock deigned to raise his voice. "Go away."

"No, not happening. Unlock the door."

"No." Sherlock turned over onto his side, away from the door.

John drew in his breath sharply. "Why the hell not?" he demanded, attacking the door again for good measure.

"I said _go away!_" Sherlock sat up abruptly, seized a book lying nearby, and hurled it at the door. Almost immediately he slumped back onto the bed again, staring at the ceiling now. He couldn't understand what was happening here, it was all too confusing... but the mere thought of John helping Moriarty made him want to cringe and curl up.

That did it. Features set, John turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. Only moments later, he had returned, this time with the spare key he had never found it convenient to mention to Sherlock gripped tightly between his fingers. He stuffed it roughly in the lock and shoved the door open.

"And I said we need to talk. Right here, right now."

Sherlock sat bolt upright again as John barged in. He didn't bother to ask how the other man had got in; of course John would have a spare key, probably to every door in the flat.

"I _don't_want to talk to you, John." The words were harsh but cold, as Sherlock replaced the mask of composure which he had allowed to slip while in the (temporary) privacy of his bedroom.

"We need to," the doctor said quietly. "That much - is clear."

"Oh, yes." Sherlock's voice was dripping with acidic sarcasm now. "Things really are becoming _so_much clearer now."

"Well they won't if you don't talk to me." John took a deep breath. "So..." He gestured in Sherlock's direction, hoping he would take the hint.

Sherlock stared hard at his flatmate for a moment, torn between letting out what was going on inside his head, and continuing to be difficult in the hopes that John would just get tired of receiving non-answers and leave. In the end, he opted for the second path, and consequently let out a breath of frustration before falling back onto his side again.

"You think I'm still being manipulated by Moriarty." John hadn't wanted to say it so bluntly - hadn't wanted to say it at _all_, in fact, but Sherlock's stubbornness left him with little choice. "You think - it's been like this since that call." His tone dropped. "Don't you?"

Sherlock did not turn over to look at John again. He felt his jaw clench at the accusation, but obviously couldn't deny the truth of the other man's suspicions. Instead, he only stared hard at the wall in his immediate line of sight, as though trying to bore a deep hole into it. It was only after several long, tense moments that he spoke.

"Yes." He had to force the word out between his lips.

John's breath left him in a sharp exhalation, and he quickly turned his head away. As much as he had expected the answer, it still cut through him. "I'm not," he said after a very long silence. But he knew that wouldn't be enough.

"How can you expect me to just take your word for it?" cried Sherlock, this time rolling over slightly to snap a look of anger at his friend. "Moriarty has already proved that he can and will use you for his own purposes, John - in fact, I'm beginning to suspect that he _prefers _it."

"So it's useless no matter what I say," John finished for him, feeling his throat constrict.

This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. Always before it had been him and Sherlock - no, more like Sherlock and him - against whatever odds might arise. Moriarty had used him before, but as a hostage, never as something that could be seen as more than a pawn. His target had been Sherlock, and it was upon Sherlock that he had focused all his brilliant and subtle energies. He was learning, John thought bitterly. Moriarty was learning even better how to reach his ultimate rival.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his features twitching slightly as he fought back the doubts still circling around the edges of his mind. There were just too many possible layers to this. Even now, looking over at John, he couldn't prevent the thought from intruding on his consciousness - that even this, the clear dismay of his best friend, might somehow be all part of the act...

He tore his gaze away again, for once unable to discern the truth just by simply looking for a lie in John's eyes. "You can't deny that he has been using you," he gritted out eventually, his voice slightly muffled as he stared down at his pillow.

"I _told_ you that!" John answered loudly, his breath quick and shallow as he fought to maintain discipline in a situation that was spiralling rapidly out of his control. "I _told _you, when I got that text, and I wasn't even supposed to - "

"Weren't you?" whispered Sherlock, closing his eyes.

John went very still, his features shocked. "You still don't - oh, my God..." He shut his eyes briefly. "Sherlock - listen - _listen_ to me, please. It's over. _Done._ I am _not _being controlled by Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, still with his back to John. He pressed his fingers together against his lips, trying to think his way through this, but it was like a labyrinth of mist, a maze of suggestions and hints with nothing more concrete than dark suspicion. He knew now that this was what Moriarty had wanted all along, and the worst part was that Sherlock didn't know how he was supposed to find his way out of the web of lies.

What was it that Moriarty had said, all those weeks ago?

_"You think I'm going to scare _myself?_"_

_"That's right - although, you may have some help with that..."_

Sherlock exhaled slowly, dropping his head so that he was staring unseeingly at the floor. He desperately wanted to believe John, to trust that his friend was acting of his own will, even though in light of what had just happened that wasn't exactly a great comfort. He guessed that the chances of Moriarty only bluffing about controlling John were about seventy-five percent, if not higher. But could he take that risk?

"Sherlock," John said again, and this time there was a note of quiet desperation in his voice, "what do I have to say to convince you?" He bit his lip, hard, trying not to think that there might indeed be nothing he could say or do that would be enough.

"I don't _know, _John!" The words seemed to tear themselves from Sherlock's throat - loudly, violently. "All I know is that I could have _ended_ this tonight, for good, and deliberately or not, you chose to interrupt and ruin _everything -_" He broke off with a kind of growl, trying to maintain control, but it was so difficult...

"I saved your life!" John shouted, looking at the ceiling instead of at Sherlock, but then he pulled his gaze back down again. "Did you honestly believe that I was just going to _let_you do that - after everything that happened?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I saw the look on your face the other night, Sherlock. I knew... you were going to do something. Like this."

Sherlock rose suddenly, wheeling around to face John. "And you would prefer this, then, would you?" he demanded harshly. "You would prefer to keep playing Moriarty's little games, to remain a pathetic pawn in his schemes, and give him the immense satisfaction of watching us both run around like wind-up toys that haven't got a _clue_ about what's going on?" A few abrupt strides brought him within inches of his flatmate, and he stared down into the other man's face as he finished, his voice a low hiss. "_Is that what you want?"_

For a long minute, John did not answer, but his jaw clenched as he felt the heat of anger rising to his face, accompanied by a painful sting of shock. He could hardly believe that Sherlock was saying this, that he was advocating another _fall_ - except this time, John knew, there would be no return. "Find another way," he forced out, and despite all his efforts to keep his voice steady, he could hear its tremours. "Find another way, because we are _not_going through that again. Not... not - again."

"Well, you've done a very _thorough_ job in ensuring _that_ much, at least," breathed Sherlock. "I won't be able to catch Moriarty off-guard like that again - I won't be able to try anything even _close_to that again. There are no second chances in his games."

"You might hate me for saying this," John returned quietly, "but right this second, I'm pretty damn pleased about that. Did it not occur to you, Sherlock, that there've been enough suicide missions already? _Once _- once was too many."

"'Once' saved your _life," _Sherlock snarled back. He wasn't even certain, any more, of where this argument was headed; he only knew that it gave him a sort of vicious satisfaction to be able to release some of the growing foreboding which had been plaguing him since John had first received the phone call from Moriarty."

"Yeah, maybe," John replied almost immediately, "but no one thought to tell me that at the time, did they?" He met Sherlock's eyes squarely this time. He needed his friend to know that he had nothing to hide.

With a tremendous effort, Sherlock managed to get a hold on his anger. "I've already explained why," he said, forcing his voice back onto an even level. He drew away from John again, taking a few slow steps back.

"The pertinent fact remains, John" - his tone twisted slightly - "that I don't know if I can trust you."

At that, John flinched away visibly. "What do I say to that?" he whispered. "Jesus, Sherlock, what do you want me to _say?_ Because apparently you won't believe me no matter what it is, so _what's the point_?"

Sherlock turned away, steepling his fingers against his lips again. "The point," he answered, slowly closing his eyes, "is that until now, you have done absolutely nothing to make me think that you are _not _being used as Moriarty's puppet."

"_Then what the hell do you want?_"

John almost didn't hear his own words, only the pain behind them as they ripped from his mouth in a torrent of helpless frustration. Sherlock was asking the impossible - an explanation in words he would never believe because they came from John himself. His eyes were stinging now, for no matter how much he tried to explain, he was bound to lose.

"_I - don't - know!" _Sherlock found himself clutching at his head, as though trying to physically force his brain to come up with the answer. "There are too many angles, John, too many possible twists leading nowhere, and I can't sort them out - I can't even _think -_"

He slumped back down onto the edge of the bed, palms once again pressed hard over his eyes. The realisation that Moriarty had used him for his own plans had been hateful, but this, the thought that John had also been used, that he was _still_being used, stirred up an even greater loathing in the consulting detective.

A minute passed, then another, in horrible silence. Then -

"John." Sherlock's voice was quiet now, as though it had exhausted all its energy in the past minutes. "I _need _you to try to convince me. It doesn't matter how, but you have to try." A long pause. "Please."

Something inside John deflated. "How?" he asked softly, hearing the quiet desperation in his own words. "Sherlock, I don't know _how _- "

"Just -" Sherlock caught himself on the verge of shouting, and moderated his voice with an effort. "Just - try," he went on, inhaling deeply. He couldn't bring himself to say anything more, about the tight feeling he got in his chest every time he thought about the idea that he really, truly, might not be able to trust his only friend.

His mouth slightly open, John stared helplessly back at his friend. He could think of nothing, _nothing _to say that would not already be suspect the minute the words left his lips. "Sherlock, I'm not - " He swallowed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm not - God, I don't know what I'm supposed to say. You just - you have to trust me, Sherlock. Please."

"Why?" The word seemed to drop instantly from Sherlock's lips. He wasn't intentionally playing devil's advocate, but just John saying it wasn't going to be enough. After a slight pause, he added quickly, "And I'm only asking because I have to, John. I need to approach this logically."

"Because I'm your friend, for God's sake! Because if you don't think you can trust me, you might as well stop bothering with trust altogether."

Sherlock kneaded gently at his forehead. "Keep talking," he muttered, his eyes still closed. "Keep going with that line of thought."

"I'm your friend," John repeated, struggling to put voice to the jumble of thoughts in his head, "and Moriarty is your arch-enemy. You should _not_ be putting more trust in him than you do me. This is exactly what he wants - this confusion, this - this _fear_ - " He paused, floundering. "_This_, Sherlock - this is giving him what he's after."

"And what is it that he's after, John?" Sherlock kept his voice as calm as he could, in stark contrast to John's elevating levels of emotional frustration.

"I thought, before, that he wanted to destroy you." John hesitated, but he forced himself to go on. "But I think, even more than before - _now - _he means for you to destroy yourself. And, Sherlock - " A breathless pause. "Sherlock, it's working."

"Destroy myself," echoed Sherlock, very softly. "Yes... because he thought that I would do anything to keep that from actually happening... which was why he was so surprised tonight..."

"I'm not going to apologise for stopping it."

"Even knowing what I could have done... even knowing my reaction..."

"No."

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh into his fingertips. After several long moments, he realised that the rigidity of his body was actually, suddenly, beginning to dissipate. He still wasn't sure why, but something, _something, _in the way John was refusing to believe he had been in the wrong, was far more believable than any of his previous attempts at convincing Sherlock of the truth. It was just so - well, John. So completely and deeply in character that Sherlock found he couldn't reconcile it with the slightly odd way in which his flatmate had been behaving over the last few days.

Raising his head, Sherlock straightened and pulled in a steadying breath before turning to look back at his friend.

"I believe you," he said at last, as though only a second, not a minute or two, had passed since John had spoken. He paused, then added very quietly, "Thank you."

John was staring again. "I - wait. What suddenly convinced you?"

"Obviously what you just said. Only the John I know would be so moronically stubborn as to refuse to apologise for what you did."

A smile, faint and reluctant, managed to creep its way onto John's face. "Glad you know me so well, then," he murmured. "You... you do trust me, Sherlock." A question disguised as a statement.

Sherlock exhaled loudly, then nodded, before turning his head away again. His brain was starting to feel like a wrung sponge. He wasn't sure that he felt like speaking any further; some part of him wanted to preserve this moment, rather than continue the delicate conversation and risk severing that barely re-established bond of trust.

"Okay, then -" John was about to go on until he caught a bit of the expression of Sherlock's face: a strangely un-Sherlock expression, weary and uncertain. "Okay," he said again, this time leaving it at that. "I'll be... here. If you need me."

The tiniest of half-smiles twitched across Sherlock's lips, but there was little warmth behind it; only something close to bitter resignation.

"There is no 'if', John," he murmured, wondering if the other man would even hear him.

John did hear him, though he couldn't quite tell what tone was underlying those words, and he decided it would be best not to say anything. He hesitated, looking hard at his friend, and then slowly turned back toward the door. It shut behind him a moment later, softly, trying not to disturb.

Only Sherlock's eyes moved to watch him leave, and the glance was brief. Alone again, he allowed his shoulders to slump down completely. He could feel the oncoming threat of a rather severe headache, brought on by stress, lack of sleep, and far too much thinking, and much of the latter still needed to be done. Right now, though, both body and brain were slowly succumbing to a cold exhaustion.

With an effort, Sherlock rose from where he was seated and changed into more comfortable attire. He pulled his dressing gown close around him before laying down again, strangely aware of physical sensation: the slightly cool air on his skin, the uneven folds of the sheets beneath him, the lethargy of limbs which were extremely reluctant to move now that they had finally been allowed to relax.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Always, he wanted to be on the edge of his senses, ready to react to whatever information they gathered and sent to his brain. Now, though, he was just numb. He wondered dully if that might even be a good thing.

* * *

Even by the time John tramped into the sitting room, he was half-reeling with exhaustion, and to collapse with a long, drawn-out sigh into his armchair was the most wonderful feeling in the world. He sat there in silence for several minutes, rubbing his fingers along his forehead in a weary sort of massage, and then reached with a groan for his laptop. Checking his email might have seemed unusual under the circumstances, but given everything that had happened in the past twelve hours, he was desperate for even one little thing that could be considered remotely mundane.

Unfortunately, he was forced to do a double-take when he realised his only new message was from Sherlock Holmes.

With a hollow feeling in his stomach, John opened it.

_John,_

_I hadn't intended for things to end so abruptly, but Moriarty has left me with no other choice. I already told you what my plan is, and I will follow through with it. It's the best of very few options, though I doubt you'll see it that way. I hope that things may turn out better than expected, but such hope is slim, and I wouldn't put much weight on it. At least this way, if all goes as anticipated, Moriarty's schemes will be ended, and you and I will both be free of this snare he has woven around us._

_I realise that a mere note it hardly appropriate under the circumstances, but as it is, it's all I can risk if I want to ensure that this goes according to plan. Perhaps it's just as well; you know I've never been one for sentimental goodbyes. I'll say only this - I do wish things could have turned out differently. I do not regret what will happen. But I am sorry for what it will do to you. Eventually, perhaps, you will understand._

_And John - thank you._

_Sherlock_

* * *

I like this. Where does it go from here, I wonder? Feel free to speculate in your reviews! May the Force be with you.


	26. Chapter 25: In Music, Healing

****I apologise for the longer wait for this chapter! Real life circumstances have significantly decreased my online hours, and I didn't get around to the last bits of editing on this chapter until tonight. This also accounts for my lack of replies to last chapter's reviews. Again, my apologies.

Well, we're getting close to the end here - just two more chapters left in this particular journey, but I hope you enjoy them!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: In Music, Healing**

_I play the violin when I'm thinking._

Though John knew that the email must have been sent from Sherlock's mobile before - or, he realised, perhaps even during - the rooftop confrontation with Moriarty, and that having read it after the fact really made no difference, the words still stuck in his mind. And with them, the ones he had hated for so long: _That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note..._

_Well, you got it right this time, Sherlock,_he thought bitterly, and it was not at all comforting. The fact that the email was proved unnecessary did not make it any more pleasant to realise that it might have been otherwise. In the end, John did not delete it, tempting an idea as it was. Instead, he kept it, moved it to a folder out of sight, as a reminder of what the night had almost cost them both.

Even much later, John could remember the following couple of days as nothing more than a blur, as though someone had laid a thick sheet of glass over their lives for at least forty-eight hours. It was odd, and it was painful. He was only too aware of how far things had gone in the game between Sherlock and Moriarty (and oh, how he hated to call it a game, because it was not trivial by any stretch of the imagination). Everything about the flat seemed muffled, and though he and Sherlock spoke very little at first about what had happened, and the email remained unmentioned, he could still feel those things lingering between them - unspoken questions, voiceless fears. The very air was still heavy with doubt.

For despite Sherlock's insistence that he trusted John, that the breach had been healed, John knew that it hadn't. It would take far longer than a few days, longer even than a few weeks, probably, in order to stitch up the rent that Moriarty had created between them. They had realised, too late, that Miranda Allen had not been his only target, after all.

Or, thought John helplessly, had Moriarty's involving _him_ been only an afterthought? A parting gift to his ultimate rival, the icing on the cake? God, he just didn't _know._

What he _did _know was that he had very nearly lost his best friend for the second time in less than a year - and that, this time, it wouldn't have been a trick. Sherlock would not have come back to him, and in those silent moments when he caught himself thinking, John realised just how frightening that thought was. He flinched, desperately, when he recalled just how close things had come to the end.

Because though he found out later that Mycroft's people had indeed managed to neutralise two gunmen positioned in strategic positions around Bart's, the elder Holmes admitted that there had probably been a third, someone intelligent and observant enough to make his escape before he was surrounded. Even Mycroft couldn't be sure, of course, but the thought was enough to make John bite his lip and let out a long, shaky breath.

What had happened to Jim Moriarty, no one seemed to know. He had vanished again into his web, as Mycroft put it sourly, and while tracing it back to him might have been _possible_, it was more likely a waste of time. Still, for a while it left them all with an uncomfortable sensation of loose ends.

For nearly two weeks, the nightmares returned. John suspected that Sherlock knew about it; he had woken up the first night to find his door open an inch or two, and could see the faint outline of a shadow just outside on the stairs. But he had said nothing, clenching his hands into his pillow and pressing his face hard into the fabric, and after a few moments of forced silence, the shadow had retreated again. John had felt no disappointment at this, only relief, and as time passed, the dreams began to fade again.

All the same, John could not be sure that he wasn't dreaming when he awoke one night to the sound of something he had not heard in nearly a month: the gentle strains of a violin.

When he had cleared the sleep from his head and still found himself listening to the music drifting up the stairs, he concluded that he must actually be awake, and that Sherlock, for whatever reason, must actually be playing at one in the morning. Sighing, John dragged himself out of bed, rather lopsidedly pulled on his dressing gown, and made his way downstairs. He stopped at the entrance to the living room, resting one hand against the doorframe, and stood there for a minute.

There was a single light on near the desk; the rest of the room was thrown into soft divisions of illumination and darkness by the small blossom of flames in the fireplace, which Sherlock had apparently stirred up again after John had gone to bed. The consulting detective gave no indication that he noticed his flatmate. He continued to pace slowly back and forth in front of the hearth, stepping lightly over to the window and pausing for a moment before moving away again. His eyes were half-closed, as though all his attention was focused on coaxing each note from the strings beneath his fingers.

John folded his arms slowly over his chest, watching his friend. There was a strange feeling of melancholy welling up inside him - brought on, he thought, by the music that Sherlock was playing, and perhaps by the fact that it was one in the morning and he was still only half awake.

He didn't move. He was half afraid that Sherlock would stop if he did, that this soft and (for Sherlock) emotional moment would be broken. The violin was one of the few sentimental outlets that Sherlock allowed himself, and John didn't want to be the one to take that away. He didn't think the man had even noticed him, actually, absorbed as he was in his playing.

The glow from the fireplace glinted silently on the polished wood of the violin as Sherlock turned again, his back now fully to the doorway where John stood. Unaware of anything beyond that pool of light, he paused in his slow, one-man waltz across the room. The music he was playing was like a deep ache spun into sound, at once sad and bittersweet and yet in no way despairing. There were no pauses, no breaks in the flow of sound; each note followed the last with a kind of slow ease and all seemed to wrap themselves around their creator like an invisible mantle.

Sherlock drew the bow gently across the strings, and the final note lingered in the air around him before dissipating into silence. After a moment, the hand grasping the bow was lowered, but the other remained curled around the neck of the violin, holding it beneath his chin.

John cleared his throat, softly. Then, since he couldn't be sure that Sherlock had heard him, he did it again, this time louder as he stepped into the room.

"That was..." But already he was at a loss. The music had been haunting, somehow, bringing to mind an odd feeling that he couldn't identify, though he was sure he had felt it before. In the end, he just gestured vaguely with one hand. "Haven't heard that one, I don't think," he finished quietly.

Sherlock gave a little start - why hadn't he heard John enter the room? Even if he hadn't, normally he could always tell when John was around. He knew the sense of the other man's presence in his vicinity. So what had happened here?

He glanced from the violin to the bow, and after a moment, realised that he already knew the answer.

He turned around almost reluctantly, lowering the instrument at the same time. His eyes took in John's figure for a few seconds before he spoke.

"Yes, you have," he contradicted his flatmate quietly. His gaze dropped to the violin again, staring, as though studying it in search of something he wasn't sure was really there.

John blinked, then frowned. "Have I?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked up again for a brief moment, but then his eyes flickered away towards the window. "I was playing it the night Moriarty texted you." He exhaled slowly, deliberately, as though trying to rid himself of that particular connotation.

"Must've been the beginning that time," John suggested, quickly skipping over the reference to Moriarty. That was definitely not something he wanted to talk about right now.

Sherlock nodded, but made no verbal reply. His stance seemed oddly awkward, standing in front of the fireplace, still holding violin and bow. He hadn't really expected John to come down, after all, not when the other seemed to prefer that they keep their distance from one another during the nighttime hours.

Hesitantly, John moved further into the room. He ended up lowering himself into one of the armchairs by the hearth, feeling oddly awake, now that it came down to it. Apparently he wasn't going to get a whole lot of sleep tonight.

"You wrote that a while back, then?" he enquired, attempting to break the somewhat awkward silence that had ensued.

Another short nod, but slower in coming this time. Sherlock followed John's movement as the other man walked over and sat in his usual place, and his eyes remained fixed on him for a long moment even after John had settled himself there. Then he shook his head slightly, as though coming out of a daze. He strode around behind the armchair, laying his instrument down carefully, before stepping over to the window again. He didn't know why he was behaving like this, almost defensively, except that John had taken him by surprise.

John let out a soft sigh, barely audible even in the semi-dark, warm stillness of the flat. Sherlock didn't want to talk. At least, he seemed like it he didn't. "Sherlock," he began slowly, "if you want me to leave so you can, you know, be - alone down here... that's okay."

"No." The soft word rose to Sherlock's lips and was past them before he could blink and realise that he'd spoken. He turned his head, looking back at John. "No," he said again, this time willfully, though it struck him as slightly odd that his subconscious and his brain were actually in agreement on this. "I don't - it's fine. I don't mind."

"Oh. Right, then."

John slid a little further down in his seat. He was wondering what he should say - it felt like _something _needed to be said - but nothing occurred to him. From his current angle, Sherlock's profile was unreadable, which didn't really help.

"Did you like it?"

Again, the words were drawn more from an unseen sub-level of Sherlock's mind than from any sort of rational thought, but again, he didn't try to refute them. He was still half looking at John, an odd sort of expression on his face, as though he actually cared for his flatmate's approval in this matter.

"I..." John found that he had started to answer without even knowing what he was going to say. Since when had Sherlock cared about his musical opinion? "I think so," he answered hesitantly, his brow furrowed as he tried to recall the notes and the emotions they had conjured up. "It was - well, sort of sad, wasn't it? But in a, I dunno, not in a bad way. I don't think."

Something in Sherlock's face seemed to twitch slightly. "You sound unsure," he observed quietly. Breaking eye contact, he moved back around the chair in which John was seated to stand by the fireplace.

"Yeah, weird, isn't it?" John almost laughed, though he could hardly place why. "You going on about how emotion is a liability, but you're still the one coming up with all - _that._" He gestured toward the violin.

Sherlock's eyes followed John's hand for a moment, and he shrugged slightly. "Emotion through music is rarely dangerous," he explained. "And it helps me think. As you should know."

John considered that briefly, still frowning a little. "What were you thinking about?"

Taken aback by the question, Sherlock gave his flatmate a long, steady look. "I - wasn't," he said slowly, his brows drawing together slightly.

"You - what?"

Sherlock clarified. "I wasn't - thinking." He frowned at John for a moment, confused, before turning his attention to the mantel for no apparent reason.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said," John remarked, nodding to himself. "Which is why I asked - I mean, since when do you not _think_?"

"I just - didn't feel the need." Another light shrug, as though deeming the conversation of little importance.

John wasn't convinced, though. "You always feel the need." He stared at his friend for a moment longer, vaguely thinking that this was the most coherent conversation they'd had in weeks - which honestly wasn't saying much. He decided to take advantage of it. "So if you weren't thinking, were you... erm, feeling?"

There was a slight pause, in which Sherlock realised that John had effectively pinned him into a conversational corner. He hadn't meant to get into an in-depth discussion of why he played his violin... so much for that.

"You could say that, yes," he admitted finally, when no immediate evasion techniques came to mind.

Helpful, John thought, with a slight twinge of annoyance. "Feeling... sad?" he suggested quietly, and it was more a confirmation than a question.

Sherlock's eyes flickered slightly at the query as he glanced down at the fireplace. Staring hard into the little flames, he considered what his response should be. He and John hadn't let their respective guards down so far in weeks - would falling silent now destroy this sudden ease of speech? Was it worth it to open the mental locks he had put up, in order to try and get back to some semblance of normality in their currently strained relationship?

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, taking in John's earnest face. A soft sigh escaped his lips before he spoke.

"I told you before," he said eventually. "It's something I wrote a few months ago. At Mycroft's."

"At - " But John broke off again almost as soon as he started speaking, realisation dawning slowly. "So, when you were - you know - " A half dozen questions were suddenly popping up into his thoughts, pressing to be voiced, but he wasn't certain that they should. In the end, he went on softly, "Can I ask you something? What was it like - there? For you, during that whole thing?"

And why hadn't he asked this before? They had talked about _him _when Sherlock came back; God only knew they had probably talked about it too much. With a sinking, half-ashamed feeling, John wondered whether Sherlock - or anyone else, for that matter - thought him selfish for not wondering how Sherlock had handled the six-month separation.

Sherlock raised his head from his contemplation of the fireplace. He still wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it; in all likelihood it would only make John feel worse. John, of course, would say that it might help to talk about it, in the end...

He turned slowly to regard his flatmate, his lip twitching slightly as he tried to come up with the right words. "Ghastly," he said finally; but he was suddenly uncertain as to how to continue.

John pressed his lips together and nodded. "Considering how well you and your brother get along, that's not exactly surprising." He leaned forward, hands folded across the tops of his knees. "That bad, then?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded as he spoke. He had gotten over most of his experience at Mycroft's once he was no longer incarcerated there, but that didn't make the memories any more pleasant. Hesitating slightly, he went on, "I rather hated the place, in fact."

Another nod, trying to convey some measure of understanding that John wasn't sure he had. "What'd you do there?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Not much," he muttered, not unbitterly.

"Sounds tedious." John's tone encouraged his flatmate to elaborate. He hadn't missed the odd note in Sherlock's voice, but he was too grateful to be having a semi-normal conversation again to make an issue of it.

"You have no idea." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again to look at John. "Well, maybe you do," he amended after a moment. "But at least you were able to leave... wander around... talk to people..."

"Not that I did anyway, much," John added quickly.

"No, but the point is, you _could_..." Sherlock felt his jaw tighten slightly as he picked his careful way around the edge of recollection. "For me, it was six months of almost total isolation. Mycroft," he pointed out, "doesn't count."

"Mm, I suppose not," John agreed, his voice more subdued now. "God, that had to be - really hard. For you."

Sherlock found himself torn between confession and stubbornness. Yes, it had been incredibly hard, but somehow he felt that admitting it to John might make him more vulnerable than he really cared to be. Playing for a time, he settled for a short nod.

John watched his friend in silence for a long time, trying to imagine it - Sherlock, alone except for the brother he despised, in a large, grand house, cut off from everything he cared about (and John knew that he did care. Of course he cared.) He let out a low sigh, hesitated, then asked, very softly, "How did you do it?"

"I don't know," came Sherlock's slow response. "It wasn't as though I had a choice in the matter, so 'how' wasn't really a factor..."

John shook his head. "You know that's not what I meant. At least, I think you do."

"What did you mean, then?" asked Sherlock, somewhat wearily. His fingers kneaded at his forehead for a few moments and he looked at John from between his hands.

"I mean, how did you - cope, I guess?"

"Cope?"

A mirthless little smile found its way onto Sherlock's lips as he echoed the word. Of course John would ask that, if only out of curiosity regarding their differing methods of dealing with those six months apart. What John didn't seem to understand was that Sherlock had rather gone beyond the need to cope, beyond the struggle to move on. The situation hadn't really allowed for it.

"Quite frankly, John, I'm not entirely sure that I did," he continued. "It was out of my control, for the most part. I 'coped' in the very loosest sense of the word, and only because I had to."

There was something almost too _Sherlock_ in the way he said it that made John wonder if there was more. Actually, he _knew _there was more. He just wasn't sure how to get Sherlock to tell him about it - or if he wanted to know, in the end. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "I'd... like to know." Almost immediately, he grimaced. "That sounds weird, doesn't it?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, frowning again. "A bit," he agreed, tilting his head. "I admit I'm not sure why you would want to hear about something so unpleasant, particularly when it's no longer relevant."

John gave a tiny half-shrug at that. It wasn't morbid curiosity; it was something more than that, something he didn't think he could satisfactorily explain to Sherlock. A need for mutual understanding, perhaps. "Is that a 'no', then?"

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, with an odd expression on his face. "It's... whatever you'd like it to be," he corrected quietly.

"If you don't mind, then." John met his friend's gaze squarely, but said nothing more. His silence was indicative enough.

Sherlock was silent for a considerable length of time, biting his lip slightly, considering. Finally, he nodded, and turning back to the fire, began to speak.

He told John of his arrival at Mycroft's, how he had remained silent and reclusive for an entire week, fending away his brother's attempts at interaction with sullen looks and vicious words. How he would just sit, for hours on end, hardly moving, barely eating, and only sleeping when he was forced to succumb to exhaustion. He explained how on good days, he was merely bored out of his mind, and on bad ones, he had to fight to remember why he was doing this. In a softened tone, he told John of his own nightmares, from which he would wake first in terror, then relief, and later, in faint hope that the next time the dreams came to him, they would be less vivid and more distant.

John was quiet and very still throughout. He wasn't sure if his expression changed visibly, but he thought it might have. He couldn't help it, hearing such things from Sherlock. He had not realised - no, he corrected himself, he had not even _considered _how painful things might have been for Sherlock during those six months. Nor, it seemed, had Sherlock wanted him to know.

Though quite aware of the look that crept over John's face, Sherlock made no mention of it. He had finished speaking now, and his eyes had a hollow look to them as they pointedly avoided meeting those of his flatmate. It had cost more effort than he cared to admit to open up to John, and it showed in the awkward stiffness of his stance. He stared hard into the fire again, his features slightly paler than usual.

"I'm sorry."

John glanced up in surprise before realising that the words had come from his own lips. He frowned; he didn't know why he had said it, except that he had needed to say something, and it somehow seemed appropriate. He _was _sorry - sorry that any of this had happened, even though, in the end, there was no one person who could take the blame. Except, he thought darkly, perhaps Moriarty.

Sherlock raised his head sharply at the unexpected apology, and he pivoted enough to look back at John. "You're sorry?" he repeated, adding almost immediately, "Why? This is hardly your fault." He felt stung by a sudden anger that he couldn't quite explain.

"No, I didn't mean - " John shook his head. "I'm not trying to take the blame for anything. I'm just - sorry."

Sherlock eyed him for a moment. "You feel regret for everything that's happened." It wasn't a question. He shook his head. "Regret is a noble emotion, John, but a relatively useless one."

"Don't you say that about most emotions, though?" John asked, with a small, bitter attempt at a laugh.

Sherlock didn't reply immediately; his gaze travelled, almost pointedly, to where he had set down his violin a few feet away. "Some," he corrected John quietly. The anger had gone as quickly as it had come.

He stood there for a moment, then gave a little shrug, as if by doing so he could shed the weight of the memories he had just forced himself to divulge. Without looking at John, he moved a few steps to retrieve his instrument and bow again; and closing his eyes, he resumed playing.

"That helps, does it?" John's eyes were following the movement of the bow across the strings as though he had never seen it before.

Sherlock turned slightly on the spot so that he was half facing his flatmate, and managed to work an inclination of his head into the motion of his playing. It was the same piece as before, but slightly softer this time, slightly gentler, and yet all the more poignant for it.

Half an hour passed, then an hour, but in such a way that John hardly noticed. He was caught in the strains of the violin, the emotion he knew for certain now that Sherlock could feel but could never express outside of the elusive, wordless realm of music. Slowly, John found that he didn't mind. That was how Sherlock was, after all; to have changed that would have been changing the detective himself, and infuriating a human being as he was at times, such adjustments would not have been at all to John's liking. He could get used to this again, and it was alright now. He knew that Sherlock cared.

Finally, for the first time since Sherlock's return, that knowledge was enough.

* * *

Very hopefully the wait will not be as long for the next chapter. In the meantime, please continue to leave your thoughts - doing so means a lot to both Kaelir and myself. May the Force be with you.


	27. Chapter 27: Falling Back and Moving On

And here we are, so very close to the end of it all! This is the final chapter, barring an epilogue still to come, and I hope all you wonderful folks who have been following so diligently enjoy it as much as all the rest!

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**Chapter Twenty-Six: Falling Back And Moving On**

_Although - I have loved this. This little game of ours._

The following morning saw Sherlock in unusually high spirits, despite the rather meagre amount of sleep he had gotten. Rather to his surprise, it seemed that opening up to John after so long had actually been good for him; the strained tension that had been lurking between them since his return had all but dissipated. Sherlock had no plans to make such personal sessions like these into a habit, of course, but he mentally filed the concept away as a useful, if drastic measure to which he could resort, when all else failed.

With that most pressing issue settled, it was time to turn his attention to more practical matters. At John and Mycroft's rather vehement insistence, Sherlock had refrained from finding himself any cases during the last two and a half months or so, a rather spectacular feat made slightly easier by Lestrade's refusal to let him in on anything the Yard might be working on. Admittedly, there had been other distractions – trying to readjust to living with John again, and frequent trips to the lab at Bart's at odd hours, where he had run little risk of meeting up with anyone except Molly – not to mention the whole series of incidents revolving around Moriarty. But now, with all that cleared out of the way, it was time to stop hiding, and if the world couldn't cope with it, well, sod the world.

There was an expression of suppressed glee on Sherlock's face as he paced the living room impatiently. Step one of his whirlwind plan was to get the public to acknowledge that he was actually alive. He supposed that a few people had probably noticed – he hadn't turned into a complete recluse, after all – but as of yet there had been no explosion of surprise through the awareness of the commonwealth. This was probably due to his careful avoidance of anything connected to the media; though, there had been the case of running into one random reporter about three weeks after his return. Sherlock snickered quietly at the recollection. He wasn't entirely convinced that the physical atrocities with which he had threatened the man were even technically possible, but they had gotten his point across. The reporter had immediately forgotten that he had seen the consulting detective, and nothing further had arisen.

"John!" Sherlock turned his face to the stairs, calling his friend's name loudly. "Hurry up!"

A second later, John came stumbling down the stairs, his off-balance steps caused by his somewhat idiotic attempt to pull his jacket on at the same time. He gave Sherlock a look that was half annoyed, half amused, as he made it to the landing without tripping. "Sherlock, they're not going to close up downstairs just because we're half a second later than you wanted to be. Shut up and calm down."

Ignoring this remark, Sherlock immediately bounded down the stairs to the door and yanked it open. He was already wearing his coat, along with an expression of somewhat exaggerated anticipation. "I woke you up half an hour ago," he pointed out, stepping outside. "It shouldn't take you that long just to get dressed."

"Yeah, but it took me that long to get _awake_." John tugged his jacket straight and passed a hand over his hair as he followed.

"I don't see why," muttered Sherlock, pushing the door open further behind him in a pointed gesture.

John rolled his eyes even as he stuck out a hand to catch the edge of the door. "Long night, remember?" Oddly enough - or perhaps not - he couldn't see any sign of fatigue on Sherlock's face despite the fact that they had gone to bed close to four in the morning. He wondered whether that in itself was only because Sherlock's hand must have gotten tired from playing after that long.

"Probably quite a bit more than you do, actually." Sherlock threw the words back over his shoulder as he briskly strode the few steps to the door of Speedy's, hands deep in his coat pockets. Everything about him seemed to be vibrant with a kind of barely-suppressed energy.

It took a moment for John to work his way through that meaning, then he hurried to catch up. "Yeah, well, I didn't expect to be woken up by you and your violin again, now did I?" he asked rhetorically.

"I wouldn't know, John. It's your brain, not mine." Sherlock gestured towards the door, and a little smile twitched across his lips. "Shall we?"

Only a few minutes later, they were seated across from each other at one of the little tables set against the walls. John leaned back in his seat and stared evenly at his friend for a moment. "OK," he said, "explain."

Sherlock accepted the mug of tea that was set before him with an unusual word of thanks before turning back to John. His expression was that look of artful, 'I've no idea what you're on about, but please feel free to continue if you feel the need to do so, and maybe I'll answer if it sounds interesting'.

"Explain what?" he asked mildly, lifting the mug to his lips.

John gave Sherlock a look in return that said he knew exactly what Sherlock's look had been about, and didn't especially appreciate it. "What we're doing here. Why you're so eager to be in a café all of a sudden."

Sherlock pretended to think about it, then shrugged, and then suddenly smiled over the rim of his mug, that tight little smile which was usually more of a knowing, scheming smirk.

"Call it an experiment, if you like," he said, with an air of extreme generosity, as though he was letting John get the better of him and that John should consider it a real treat. "I want to see how long it takes for someone to realise I'm here. Anyone, in fact," he added.

"Well, I win, then," John pointed out easily. "I've realised you're here."

"No, you _know_I'm here," replied Sherlock, without missing a beat. "Realising means becoming aware of something which you weren't aware of before. As you've been with me since I entered, you hardly count."

John muttered something impolite under his breath. Typical Sherlock. "Yeah, okay, but what's the point? You're supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember? This isn't exactly the best way to go about it, unless there's something I'm missing here - "

"I've about exhausted the limits of my low-profile act," explained Sherlock, sipping casually at his tea for a moment before replacing it on the table in front of him. He directed an easy glance towards the door of the café. "I think it's time I got back out into the world, don't you?"

Taken aback, John could only stare for a second. "I - don't know," he admitted in a low voice. "You're going to have a lot to deal with, Sherlock. It's not going to be easy."

Sherlock flashed the tight grin at him again. "Wouldn't be any fun it it were," he pointed out.

Wondering whether Sherlock really understood the complications, John leaned forward across the table, folding his hands in front of him. "I'm serious, Sherlock. There was a lot of disappointment out there, after what you did."

"I expected nothing less."

"So," said John, "I think you're being a little too cavalier about this whole thing."

"Cavalier?" Sherlock tilted his head. "It's been almost nine months, John."

John let out a soft sigh. He wasn't exactly sure why he was so anxious about this, except that his own reaction had been anything but civil, and with Moriarty's appearance on top of that, he had come to realise that there were a lot of people out there who still would be happy to see the consulting detective put out of commission for good.

"Yeah, and you were gone for six of them," he answered. "I dunno. All I'm saying is - well, be careful. Take it slow, don't get your expectations too high."

Sherlock, however, wasn't listening; his head was suddenly bent low over the table, his fingers running lightly over the wood, feeling the interestingly shaped scratches that someone had carved into it.

"John." His voice had a queer note in it. "What's this?"

"What's what?"

"This, look..." Sherlock shoved his mug out of the way so that John could see. "Someone's written - something - on the table here..."

John peered over, and let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a groan upon seeing what Sherlock had in front of him. "Oh, that. I, erm - I forgot to mention that, didn't I?"

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet John's. "What d'you mean?" he said quickly. "I don't understand - did you -? No, that can't be, you would never scratch anything into a café table..."

"Dunno who it was; could've been anyone." John leaned back again. "I'm surprised you haven't run into this before now, actually."

"Anyone?" repeated Sherlock, his eyes frowning along with his face. He glanced between John and the words on the table and back again, trying to make the connection. "Run into what? You say it like this is commonplace, like you're not surprised -"

"Look," John said, unable to contain a slight smile, "I said there was a lot of disappointment, but there was also a lot of - well, a lot of other things, too. Belief, I suppose. People didn't want to think you'd been a fake, so... they just didn't."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted quite a bit at that, and then almost instantly dropped back into his previous expression of focused confusion. "So you're saying," he said slowly, trying to work it out, "that there were people on both extreme ends of the spectrum. So extreme that they decided to carve their beliefs into café tables."

"Erm - yeah. Pretty much."

Sherlock stared down at the simple message, his lips silently forming the words. _Believe in Sherlock. _He honestly didn't know how to react to this, this sudden support from some nameless, faceless individual who never expected the subject of those words to be reading them. It was true, he didn't care what the public thought of him, but all the same -

He caught himself. Was it true, really?

Now he was second-guessing himself. Sherlock shook away the sudden bout of soul-searching. Of course it was true.

He straightened, looked at John, and shrugged. "Interesting," was all he said before swivelling his gaze to the door again.

John was smiling openly. "That's all you've got to say about it? _Interesting_? I thought it was pretty damn courageous the first time I saw it on a wall somewhere."

"On a wall?" Sherlock flicked his attention back to his flatmate again. "Where?"

At that, John merely shook his head. "It was a while ago. I don't remember. They're all over the place, though," he went on. "_Believe in Sherlock, Moriarty was real, Richard Brook was a fake. _I was really surprised." He grinned suddenly. "You've practically got your own Sherlock Holmes cult."

"A _cult_?" repeated Sherlock, slightly disbelieving. "I seem to recall Lestrade describing it as an 'internet phenomenon', but I think there's a difference..." But he trailed off, almost wonderingly. He had expected a wave of hostile feeling in his direction, had been at the start of experiencing it before his disappearance, but this... he never would have anticipated things to go in the complete opposite direction.

"Well," he said eventually, bringing his voice back onto a conversational note. "This should greatly simplify things from the public standpoint."

John tilted his head uncertainly. "I suppose a bit, yeah," he agreed after a moment. "Just have to wait and see how things turn out."

Sherlock made a soft humming noise of agreement and glanced around the café again. A moment later, he stiffened imperceptibly as he looked through the glass near the front. His eyes narrowed slightly. No, this was really too much...

He threw a darting look at John out of the corner of his eye. No need to spoil things for the man, he decided immediately. There wasn't much that could happen outside a café, in any case. Sherlock rose abruptly from his seat.

"Be right back," he said shortly. "Just popping out for some air..." Without waiting for an answer he moved quickly, though not hurriedly, towards the door.

By the time Sherlock made it outside, Moriarty had moved slightly; he was no longer loitering in front of the café, but leaning back against the wall to the far right of the door. For once, he was dressed not in an immaculate, carefully-tailored suit, but wore instead a pair of jeans and a dark grey jacket that would attract far less attention outside a place such as Speedy's. His head was tilted back against the wall, eyes almost closed, but he looked over almost immediately when the detective approached.

"Before you say anything, Sherlock," he began, "I want to assure you that I'd like to keep this as civil as possible. Not the best time or place to be making a scene."

Sherlock's eyes were flinty as he walked over, first checking to make sure that John hadn't followed. He scanned Moriarty up and down swiftly, as though checking for some physical sign of underhanded intention.

"Civil?" he repeated, rather scathingly. "I thought you'd given up that line of interaction." He paused for a moment, pointedly, then went on, "You've probably already noticed that I'm not really disposed to listen to you right now, so you'd better make this quick, and _very_convincing."

An expectant silence fell. Sherlock stared hard at the consulting criminal, everything about his stance warning the other man that he wasn't at all in the mood to be toyed with. For the first time in weeks, even months, he had been feeling almost relaxed, and Moriarty had picked this of all moments in which to appear again. Such dampers on his mood did not sit well with Sherlock.

Moriarty shifted slightly. "I expected as much, which is why I waited this long before coming to have a little chat with you." His tone was, indeed, extraordinarily polite for someone who only a month before had been holding both John and Sherlock at gunpoint. "I didn't fancy trying to prise your fingers from around my neck," he added blandly.

Sherlock's features didn't even flicker into a semblance of a fake smile. "Strangling you would cause far too much fuss," he said tonelessly, and yet his voice was chilly. "I can think of at least six more efficient ways of getting rid of you, and that's without straining my imagination."

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad," returned Moriarty, flashing an odd grin. "Your mind is a _fascinating _place sometimes, Sherlock."

Slowly, he levered himself off the wall with one hand and took a step forward. They were facing each other now, and there was a moment of high tension before Moriarty slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. When he spoke again, he was not looking at Sherlock, but glancing continuously at their surroundings as though searching for the right words.

"I've got some business to take care of fairly soon, so I'm not going to take much of your time. Odd, isn't it? Me, getting straight to the _heart _of the matter, if you will..." For a moment, that half-mocking smile curved his lips, but then it was gone again.

Sherlock let his breath out in a low hiss. "Don't push me, Moriarty," he said dangerously. "Now get to the point. If I'm gone for much longer John will poke his head out of that door, and I won't be responsible for any messes he creates as a result. I'm doing you a favour by coming out here alone."

"Oh, don't worry, I do appreciate the consideration. It's quite touching."

"It wasn't meant as consideration," said Sherlock menacingly, "it was meant as the only warning you're going to get. Now explain why you're here or leave."

"Patience, Sherlock, I'm getting there. I trust you'll not take what I'm about to say in any way other than the one I mean. But then," he added, "we understand each other, don't we?" Moriarty paused again, apparently unable to entirely overcome his tendency toward dramatic effect.

A moment passed, and his eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's.

"I think," he said, placing a delicate emphasis on each word, "it's time we ended this game."

Sherlock raised his head slightly, holding Moriarty's gaze unflinchingly, searching the cold eyes for a deeper significance. But, it seemed, there wasn't one. For once, there was no double-meaning in the other man's intentions, only the acknowledgement of what they had both come to realise over the course of their latest interactions.

Suddenly, they did understand each other, and more importantly, they were both on the same side of the issue.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock nodded. "I agree," he said quietly, and he could feel the tension - so palpable only moments before - easing from his body. He pressed his lips together for a moment. "Time to step back."

"_Because we're just alike, you and I_," Moriarty intoned softly. "And to be quite honest, Sherlock, I don't think anyone else in this city is ready for twin suns with opposite orbits."

"Eloquently put," murmured Sherlock, his features taking on a look of thoughtfulness. "Though I think you may be stretching the metaphor slightly when you use the word 'twin'."

"You think so? At any rate, I suppose that's how things stand. You, me - we could easily tear the world apart between us, Sherlock, _so _easily - " Moriarty sounded intrigued, tempted, by the thought. "But we both need somewhere to play, so that'll have to wait."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'll be sure to give you credit for the apocalypse, then," he remarked.

Interesting, he thought idly for a moment, how casually they had dissipated one another's fears with just a few words and knowing looks. They had come to the same conclusions in the past month, the same realisation that each had stepped too far in his desperation to remain on his feet and grasp the upper handhold. They would never be equals, of course - the balance shifted too quickly and too constantly for there to ever be equality. But then, equality tended to be overrated anyway.

Moriarty shook his head, a faint look of disappointment crossing his face. "No, the world will continue to turn its slow, boring way long after I'm gone. Oh, well." He shrugged. "I can live with that."

"You wouldn't have it any other way." Sherlock wasn't referring to the world.

The consulting criminal breathed a soft, appreciative laugh. "You're good, Sherlock. You're terribly good, and I'm sorry to see it all end, but end it must. Not," he added fairly, "that anything else will change. I'm not going to stop what I'm doing, and I expect no less from you."

"Of course." This time Sherlock did smile tightly. "I expect I'll root out one of your schemes within the next year or so - your _web _has so many extensions that I can hardly avoid it entirely."

"Don't disappoint me. We wouldn't want to take out _all _the fun."

"Otherwise there would be no point."

A long silence ensued, in which Sherlock continued to stare at the other man for several long moments. It was strange to think that he and Moriarty had come to an agreement, one that would at least temporarily halt the circumstances upon which their entire relationship was based. Then he turned his head slightly, glancing at the door of the café.

"Well, I had better be going," he said finally. "Before John decides to come out and throw a fit."

A bare nod, oddly understanding. "And we couldn't have that."

Moriarty's features had lapsed into inscrutability once again. He, too, stole a casual glance at the café, but seemed altogether unconcerned about whether John would appear or not; he still lingered, as though waiting for a final word from his rival. When none was immediately forthcoming, he glanced down at the pavement beneath their feet, seemed to collect his thoughts, and looked back up again.

"Well-played, Sherlock Holmes."

And with the barest hint of a satisfied smile playing about the corners of his lips, Moriarty turned away. His steps carried him easily down the street; a moment later, he was gone.

Sherlock remained expressionless as he watched the casual departure of the consulting criminal, his head tilted slightly in thought. What was it John had mentioned in the café?

_Moriarty was real._

A slow little smile crept its way across his lips. Even within a so-called "cult" devoted to the support of Sherlock Holmes, Moriarty could find his own edge. Well-played indeed.

Exhaling shortly, Sherlock pivoted on his heel and strode back into the café. John had become noticeably distracted by a new waitress during the detective's absence, and was having what looked to be a very pleasant conversation with the young woman; he was smiling in a way that he hadn't for months, and even managed not to be annoyed when Sherlock returned to interrupt their exchange. "Better?" he enquired.

Sherlock took his seat across from John and glanced critically at his mug of tea, which had gone cold.

"Refreshing," he remarked, and raised a hand to summon a refill.

* * *

Remember, epilogue still to come, but as always your thoughts are so appreciated here. It's been a long time in the making. May the Force be with you!


	28. Epilogue

_With all due grovelling and begging for mercy, we apologise for the extreme tardiness of this long (and final) chapter. Between travel and the holidays, editing just didn't happen as quickly as we would have liked._

_For everyone who has followed this at any point in its progress, as you know, reviews are always appreciated, especially now that the story is concluded. If you have the time, tell us what you think overall! It would mean a lot. :) _

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**Epilogue**

_That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience._

"Yeah. OK, I'll keep that in mind. Yes, thank you. 'Bye."

Lestrade replaced the receiver of his desk phone back into its holder. One hand reached around to rub at the nape of his neck in a weary sort of way as he slumped back in his chair. Finally, it seemed, things were going to be back to normal. It had taken him over a month of careful pressure and wheedling explanations to convince the higher authorities that Sherlock Holmes, self-styled consulting (amateur) detective was in fact still alive and, more importantly, that he should be given the benefit of the doubt in regards to the entire "fraud" fiasco. But it seemed to have been smoothed over, for the most part, at least officially. Lestrade wasn't about to speculate on the public view of things yet.

The DI's hand moved from his neck to his forehead, giving the area between his eyes a brief but welcome massage. He hadn't had all that much contact with Sherlock and John since his visit to the hospital; he'd gotten the distinct impression that, in the absence of any case-based relationship, the detective wanted very little to do with him. He supposed he couldn't really blame Sherlock, considering that their interactions before that hadn't been exactly cordial. All the same, he did hope that Sherlock would have the grace to get off his high horse and at least deign to speak civilly to him again. Eventually.

It was late afternoon, and those not on night duty at the Yard had, for the most part, left for their respective homes. Things were fairly quiet; it wasn't until later that business started picking up again, and then the night crew would have their hands full again. It was, after all, far more sensible to have the cover of darkness in which to perpetrate one's crimes.

Unfortunately for Lestrade, darkness seemed to have a few ideas of its own, none of which involved waiting for time to sink the sun behind the horizon. Darkness was about to take things into its own very capable hands, and the first warning came when the lights went out.

Not even a second later, the rest of the power followed suit, as though it had taken a millisecond to process what it was supposed to do, and then suddenly caught on: there was a strange whirring sound, slow and heavy, that grated through the building, leaving vast echoes in its wake, and then everything stopped: computer monitors flickered soundlessly and died, phone lines that had been in use a split second before were suddenly cut off with not even a dial tone remaining, and various other buttons blipped helplessly for a moment before going dark. Even Lestrade's mobile, which was sitting on his desk next to the keyboard and had been happily receiving several texts a moment before, suddenly realised with a blink of dismay that it no longer had any signal.

For a moment, everything was very, very still.

Lestrade's head snapped up as everything suddenly blacked out, and then he leapt to his feet, swearing loudly. A quick check of the various devices in his office provided unpleasant confirmation that what seemed to have happened, had in fact happened. This was not good - about as not good as things could get, actually. As far as he could tell from here, there was no power anywhere in the building, not to mention no signal of any kind. He needed to figure out what was going on, and get it fixed, before something even worse happened.

He stuffed his phone into his pocket despite its useless state and dashed from his office. At least there was still light coming in through a few windows, small comfort though that was in the face of several larger problems. The DI scanned the knots of confused Yard employees for a moment, then raised his voice.

"Oi, Donovan! What the hell's going on?"

Donovan pushed roughly past a few milling office workers, her voice raised above the increasingly confused babble that was beginning to fill the floor. "Not a clue!" she answered, leaving off the usual _sir_in her obvious anxiety. She didn't seem to be panicking yet, not Donovan, but there was a distinctly startled look in her eyes that didn't bode well for their situation.

"No one's got any idea, and we're still trying to re-establish contact with the other departments. Looks like the whole building's out, as far as anyone can tell - " She broke off, lowering her voice. "We've lost satellite, WiFi, everything, and from that sound a minute ago, might be the generator. And the backup one," she added.

"Bloody fantastic," said Lestrade savagely. He let out a carefully controlled breath, glancing around at the unorganised scene. "Okay, look - you try to get things together here, and I'll go downstairs to see what I can find out. Someone's got to have a clue about what's happened - no entire building, especially not this one, blacks out for no reason."

Donovan gave him a pointed look, as though she wasn't sure if there was something he might be holding back. "D'you have any theories on that, sir?"

"I think I'll leave the theorising until I've got a tad bit more info on the situation," came the short response. "See what you can do up here, I'll get back to you when I can."

"Right." She nodded, in that short, confident, you-can-count-on-me way of hers, and immediately whirled on her heel and began waving a file folder over the heads of the crowd. "OK, everyone, you're all going to need to shut up, please! We're working this out as fast as we can..."

Lestrade made a quick detour back into his office in order to grab the torch he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk; then he began working his slow way downstairs. With each level he descended, his suppressed panic and sense of foreboding increased and threatened to break loose. No one he encountered had any idea what had happened - they were all just as confused as the people in his own department. And then there was the totality of the incident to worry about, the fact that everything, _everything, _had been successfully shut down. This was the the result of some horrible targeted scheme, he was sure, and there was no telling how much damage had already been done.

Rather than send someone down, Lestrade decided on impulse to act on Sgt. Donovan's suspicions and check the generators himself. God only knew there was nothing else he could do right now, except maybe join the throngs and start yelling along with them. He shoved through the door leading to the basement, thumbing on his torch as he went.

He had to resist the urge to bang his forehead into the wall when he found that Donovan had been correct. Not a single generator, including the backup, was showing any signs of life. He swung his torch beam around the dark basement, silent save for the echo of his footsteps.

And then he froze. He lifted the torch a bit higher, training the light on an empty wall space not far away. His eyes widened, and he drew in a harsh breath. His mind felt as though it had just been hit with a falling sledgehammer.

* * *

"Sherlock, what happened to the lasagna I had in here from Tuesday?"

With an ease that came from much practice, John projected his voice loudly and irritably across the totality of the flat. Sherlock was only in the other room, but it took more than a normal speaking voice to get through to the detective when he was locked away in the intricate recesses of his own mind.

"How should I know?" came the equally loud and irritated reply.

"Because it was _here_, and now it's _not_, and I didn't touch it!" John shut the fridge and marched out into the sitting room, fixing Sherlock with one of his best reproving looks. "Conclusion: Sherlock's done something with it."

"That's a very interesting conclusion, John," remarked Sherlock from his prone position on the sofa, "and also a completely _wrong_one." He stared up at his flatmate almost disdainfully. "What would I want with your lasagna? You know perfectly well I can't abide the stuff."

"So, you may have done something horrible and completely inhuman to it," John said immediately, with the annoying sensation that he was really grasping at straws here. "I'm just asking - _do_you have any idea what happened to it?"

"I have an idea, yes. However, I don't _know._"

John frowned. "What's your idea, then?" he asked slowly, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer.

Sherlock let out a sort of long-suffering sigh, as though it made his brain hurt to have to explain something so insignificant. "I expect that Mrs Hudson threw it out," he said dully.

"What? Why? It was only two days old!"

Sherlock shrugged, stretching his arms out behind his head before folding them there comfortably. "Maybe she thought it looked a bit gone by," he suggested. "I know I certainly did."

"And why," said John, gritting his teeth, "was it gone by if it was only two days old?"

"You'd know better than I would. I'm not particularly knowledgeable when it comes to the life expectancy of a lasagna."

John glared at him for a moment, sighed, and gave up. Muttering under his breath, he crossed the room and returned to the kitchen, in the hopes of finding something else in the fridge that hadn't yet been contaminated by time, or Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him go with an expression of mild indifference on his face. Just because he experimented with food on occasion didn't mean that John had to blame him whenever something went missing.

Abruptly, his phone rang from where it lay on the table next to him. He considered it for a moment, and then made up his mind to at least see who it was.

Oh, wonderful. Lestrade. His expression changed to one of almost wary expectation as he sat up to accept the call.

"What do you want?"

John looked up from where he was shredding lettuce into what he hoped was a clean bowl. "Sherlock? Who's that?" A bit of lettuce escaped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor. With a sigh, he stooped to retrieve it.

Sherlock glanced briefly towards the kitchen at John's call, but did not reply. His brow was furrowed now as he listened to Lestrade's urgent voice. "Are you sure?" he demanded.

_"Sherlock, I'm looking straight at it. It's not exactly difficult to read. Someone's pulling a really twisted prank here, and I'm starting to get more than a few suspicions that I really don't want to think about."_

Sherlock couldn't help but agree with that. "But you've got everything back now?" he asked, going through the information in his mind.

_"Like I said, it was only out for about ten minutes, tops. Then everything came back just as quick as it'd gone out. We've got people going through all our data to see what's been tampered with, but nothing's turned up so far."_

"That doesn't make sense," muttered Sherlock, running his free hand through his hair.

Barely avoiding hitting his head on the side of the table as he straightened again, John shot a sharp glance towards the sitting room. What little he could hear sounded far less than good. "Sherlock," he said again, more urgently now, "is that Greg? What's happened?"

"One moment." Sherlock lowered the phone briefly so that he could call into the kitchen, "Yes, it's Lestrade." Considering that reply to be sufficient, he lifted the phone to his ear again. "Go on."

_"I need you to get over here and take a look, before someone else comes down to double-check that the generators are working again. Okay?"_

"On my way. Make sure that no one else interferes." Sherlock didn't bother to wait for a confirmation from the other end before hanging up. He tucked his phone swiftly into the pocket of his jacket and rose.

"John! Your salad will have to wait, we need to see Lestrade." He was already pulling on his coat as he spoke.

John circled around the kitchen table, still holding the half-head of lettuce in one hand. "Why, what's happened?" he repeated, looking Sherlock up and down as though that would somehow give him a clue. It didn't, and he met Sherlock's eyes again. "Not a case?"

"No." Sherlock draped his scarf around his neck. "An incident."

"What's that mean - incident?" John was still frowning, but, recognising Sherlock's tone for what it was, he hurriedly bounced the lettuce back onto the table and headed into the hallway for his jacket.

"You'll see when we get there. Come on." Leaving John to close the door, Sherlock stepped quickly down the stairs.

"You took your time," accused Lestrade, as John and Sherlock approached at a hurried walk.

"John felt the need to ask questions," responded Sherlock, without bothering to glance at his flatmate for a reaction. He eyed Lestrade piercingly, taking in the other man's obvious agitation. "Show me."

They descended to the basement level with Lestrade leading the way, ignoring a great number of curious looks and questioning murmurs that followed them like echoes down the hallways of the building. Not everyone realised that Sherlock had returned, after all, for up until very recently, both John and Lestrade had been careful to ensure that the detective's visits to the Yard were as few and far between as possible. From now on, they would have to take a different stance.

"What are we looking at, exactly?" John asked as they turned a sharp corner at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

Lestrade exchanged a pointed look with Sherlock before replying. "A note that someone left down here while everything was blacked out," he said, somewhat grimly. "I'm not entirely sure what the point was, either."

They had reached the basement now. The DI led the other two towards the generators, then turned and indicated, with an almost resigned flick of his hand, what had previously been an uninteresting, blank grey wall. John felt his breath catch in his throat.

There was writing on the wall. Writing, in large, sprawling, acidic green letters that seemed to glow in the dim overhead light. Writing that formed words, and words that made no sense whatsoever -

_RICHARD BROOK IS DEAD._

Sherlock didn't move, almost didn't breathe, for several long moments as he stared at the message. It had been left for him, he knew, but not for him only. The perpetrator knew that he would understand, and would be able to explain it to those who couldn't fathom its real meaning.

He didn't bother to step nearer the wall in search of information that might have been gathered by closer observation. He didn't need to; everything of importance was also extremely obvious. Instead, he turned his head slightly towards Lestrade, though without making eye contact.

"Have someone check all the files relating to Richard Brook or James Moriarty."

John frowned; he had to tear his eyes away from the vivid green letters in order to give Sherlock a puzzled look. "You think he's tampered with the records?"

"Wait, hold on." Lestrade held up a hand, glancing from John to Sherlock. "You think _who's _tampered with the records?"

"I'll explain _after_you've checked them," said Sherlock adamantly. He was fairly sure of what was going on, but a little confirmation was always nice to get.

Lestrade shook his head disbelievingly, but still pulled out his phone and did as Sherlock had ordered. The minutes dragged by, with the DI looking increasingly impatient and on edge; but Sherlock only continued to stand there, looking almost relaxed, studying the vivid message. John, in the meantime, meandered very carefully over towards the wall, feeling as though the letters upon it were still watching him; and it was only when he stood about a foot from the corner that he noticed something glinting in the shadow there. He bent down.

Two guns. _Their _guns. He swallowed. The ones they had left on Bart's roof.

"Sherlock," he called over his shoulder, straightening and turning with the weapons in his hands.

The detective glanced over, his eyes immediately fixing on what his flatmate held. Something suspiciously like the tiniest quirk of a smile appeared, and then was gone an instant later. Still, he said nothing.

"Sherlock," John said again, frowning as he returned and flicking a careful, sidelong glance at Lestrade, "there's definitely something you're not letting on. For God's sake, you don't even look worried. _What _is all this about?"

Sherlock didn't even look at his flatmate this time. "I'll explain when we find out about those records," he repeated tersely.

_Find out what? _John wanted to ask, but he knew better than to say it. He would only get a somewhat exasperated look from Sherlock, and still no answer, so in the end, he merely passed off one of the guns to his flatmate and waited.

A strangled sputtering from Lestrade seemed to indicate that he'd finally received a response. Sherlock turned to regard him with eyebrows raised expectantly, and he wasn't really surprised to see the look of indignant shock on the DI's face.

"Well?"

"You were right, Sherlock -" Lestrade was shaking his head again, as though unable to process what he had just learned, and he had to struggle for a few moments before anything more would come out coherently. "It's all gone, everything - every file, every record, every scrap of data relating to Moriarty or Brook -"

"What?" John asked sharply, looking between them. "Everything? How could he possibly - and why? Why would he bother to just _delete _everything?"

"Okay, _who_ are we talking about, exactly?" demanded Lestrade, sounding very frustrated. "And where the hell did _those _come from?" He was looking at the weapons, but John only gave a slightly apologetic look and otherwise kept his mouth shut.

"Moriarty." Sherlock did step forward now, reaching out to run his fingers lightly over the fresh though dry paint. Ignoring Lestrade's strangled noise of protest, he went on, "This is his way of ending things, John - his way of declaring that the game is over."

John gave Sherlock a hard, searching look, trying to see the meaning beyond the obvious. He wasn't sure he was getting it. "Over," he repeated quietly. "Sherlock, you said yourself, it's never going to be _over_- "

Unable to restrain himself, Lestrade burst out, "Moriarty's _dead!_"

Sherlock turned and looked between the other two, taking in their individual looks of confusion and disbelief. It seemed as though the detective had quite a bit of tedious explaining to do in the very near future.

He didn't answer immediately, instead glancing away again, turning his attention back to Moriarty's message. His lips parted slightly, silently forming the words before him. The consulting criminal, it seemed, wasn't entirely capable of suppressing his flair for the dramatic, the need to show off; he just had to leave one final reminder to the world of exactly what it was dealing with.

Quite suddenly, Sherlock felt a low chuckle rising in his throat at the thought.

John turned again to stare at him. "Are you - you're _laughing_? Sherlock, there's nothing funny about this."

"Not to you, perhaps," replied Sherlock, finally pivoting away from the wall. There was a strangely appreciative smile on his face to go along with the laughter. "Oh, Moriarty is good... Come on, then." He beckoned towards the other two in a business-like manner, striding towards the exit. "I don't think we need to worry about our friendly consulting criminal for awhile."

There was a look on John's face that expressed grave doubts regarding the exact duration of that 'awhile', but Sherlock's words had nonetheless managed to lift a large weight from his mind. He tucked his gun away at the back of his belt and followed the familiar path in his friend's wake, thinking. If anyone knew Moriarty, it was Sherlock, and if Sherlock said they had no reason to worry - John could trust him on that.

Lestrade threw up his hands and hurried after them. Brushing past John, he caught Sherlock by the shoulder as the detective began to ascend the stairs leading up from the basement.

"Okay, Sherlock, start talking. What's going on here that you haven't told me?"

Still smirking slightly, Sherlock tucked his hands into his coat pockets, and his face assumed a thoughtful expression. "Quite a bit, actually, Lestrade." He paused, stepping back to hold the door for John. When his flatmate had passed, Sherlock fell in step beside Lestrade again.

"You see," he went on clinically, "faking one's own death isn't nearly as effective as anticipated when the other side does precisely the same thing..."

Ahead of them, John was smiling as he walked along the narrow hallway. This was better. This was _good_. Things, he thought, as he watched Lestrade's face growing slowly more and more incredulous, were finally back to normal.

Or at least as normal as things could be, when you walked at the side of Sherlock Holmes.

**END**

* * *

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**It's really amazing to take some space and realise how long this has been, and how far it's come since we sat down and just started a simple roleplay. Looking back, there are always some things that don't quite satisfy, some viewpoints about motives and characters that may have changed, but overall, we're really proud of what we've done here, and hope it's been well worth it for everyone reading this. **

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